Vimes is a Continuation of Politics by other Means
by Mad Possum
Summary: When a diplomatic shipment goes missing, is it a few letters on international politics at risk, or are the Watch investigating for much higher stakes? Rated for possible language. UPDATED! Wow, will wonders never cease?
1. Chapter 1

Well, the Summer Holidays are almost over, but since most of my friends are scattered across the country, I have had nothing to do. So, I have read too many books (including Sharpe and Discworld), watched too much TV (including Spooks, or MI5 as Americans may know it), and read too many University reading list books (including far too much on International Diplomacy), and the resulting whirlwind in my head took the form of this fic. It is all Discworld, with influences from all of the above, and... well, I guess you should judge for yourself if it is a normal whirlwind, or a freak whirlwind that does good (such as redecorating the Watch House)...

And many apologise to the memory of Karl Von Clausewitz for the butchering of his famous line for the title

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, or at least nothing anyone else would want. All the good stuff belongs to Pratchett, all praise to him.

The snow was thick on the ground as Sergeant Angua and Constable von Humpeding crossed the Brass Bridge. The normal reaction of the city to a fresh fall of snow was to run a few dozen carts over it, maybe a couple of traps and several score pedestrians, to create an odd mix of slush and slurry that passed for snow in Ankh-Morpork. Today, however, the snow had frozen before it had finished falling, giving the streets a layer of ice with a sprinkling of snow on top to hide it. The two undead officers weren't even on duty yet, but had already broken up three ugly fights resulting from road accidents.

"So just to get this straight," Sally von Humpeding was saying, "Commander Vimes has banned any talking about formal events other than the day before them?"

"Unofficially," Angua confirmed. "There was a time when the only thing people could talk about were the Ducal tights. Although Lance Constable Hasenfield's little episode did wonders for stopping that for a while."

"What did he do?"

Angua grinned.

"He put a pair of red tights on Vimes' desk. Well, he tried to. Commander Vimes has certain views on people getting into his office without his knowing, and most of these involve the person being immobilised until he comes in for work. Ever been suspended upside down above a floor covered in steel caltrops by a string originally used to tie up a scroll?"

"You know, that is one experience missing from my portfolio," Sally replied.

"Well, Lance Constable Hasenfield has."

"Ouch."

"No, that came when the string snapped."

Sally actually flinched, and Angua smiled slightly at catching the vampire out. They walked under the archway into the coach yard of the Watch House (and at the peak of the arch was pinned a piece of Holly, alongside a sign saying 'Strictly no Fraternisation'), and then through a back door into what was, technically, the Woman's locker room. In fact, there were only 3 women in the watch, but since there were 8 openly female dwarves, a vampire and a werewolf both of the female persuasion, and 5 female trolls, Commander Vimes had ensured that the locker room was on a similar scale to the male version.

Angua hit the row of lockers at exactly the right place and all of the doors sprang open. She walked along them, closing all of them until she reached the last two. She reached into her own and pulled out her breastplate, helmet, and chainmail. She put the more armoured part of her uniform on over the drab brown clothes, and then buckled on her sword belt.

Sally, who was just buckling the last strap on her armour, asked,

"Why do you even bother with a sword? You can tear a man's throat out if the fancy takes you, why carry some dead weight?"

Angua shrugged.

"A sword is for having. Someone sees a sword and is less keen to raise the stakes. Anyway," she added, "Commander Vimes likes to have people who know how to use a weapon on hand to teach the recruits. What fun that is."

"It must take a lot of effort to remain so cynical of everything." Sally said.

"It takes practise," Angua replied.

The two women walked into the corridor behind the main office, and heard the noise. The modern watch produced almost as much noise as it did paperwork; people shouting about some crime (as often as not a perceived crime rather than a genuine one), people shouting about knowing their rights, people shouting to be heard over the shouting… the sensitive hearing of the werewolf and vampire had to shut down to stop going insane.

"No, no, owning a Paint Horse in Park Drive is not a crime, I'm sorry…"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask your to leave… oh, for the Gods sakes… someone get Sergeant Detritus!"

"No, sir, The Bloody Stupidity Act doesn't cover crossing the road…"

"Ma'am, we can't release your gardener, he killed someone… yes, yes, dwarves are indeed protected by the law… then write to your damn MP…"

"MP?" Sally asked Angua as they climbed the stairs away from the noise.

"Member of Parliament." Angua replied shortly.

"But the last Parliament was hundreds of years ago…"

"Yeah, telling someone to write to their MP is the same as telling them to go to Hell, or that you don't give a damn… basically telling them what it feels like to be a Watchman."

The two women paused outside the Commander's office, straightening shirts and rubbing patches of dirt off breastplates. Before a Hogswatch Ball, Vimes was always in a foul mood and looked for any reason to spread it around.

Angua raised her fist, and knocked on the door.

"Yes?" Vimes shouted. Angua raised her eyebrows at Sally and took the single syllable as permission to enter.

Commander Vimes was sitting behind his desk. His breastplate was polished, a rare occurrence, and on his desk was a helmet. With a plume. His expression said very clearly that any mention of either item would lead to a quick spell patrolling Quarry Lane.

This balancing act was always difficult for Sally. On the one hand, biting her lip was a great way to keep silent and not burst out laughing. On the other hand, with teeth as sharp as a vampire's and her taste for blood, she couldn't risk breaking the skin.

Sally found it as no surprise that Angua had mastered keeping a totally straight face in these circumstances. She had marched into the room and come to a halt with military precision, and thrown a perfect salute, helmet held under one arm, eyes on a point above Vimes' head. Exactly the kind of manoeuvre designed to piss Vimes off without giving him a reason for anger.

"Sergeant," Vimes said, slowly and carefully, "do that again, and I promise you, you will see corporal before the end of the day."

Of course, Vimes didn't need a reason.

Angua lowered her gaze and relaxed her posture until she was looking at her Commander and in the Watchman's slouch rather than soldier's attentive stand. Sally followed suit, standing perhaps slightly more attentively, showing the difference in their experience of Vimes.

The Commander watched them both for a long moment. Then he leant forward and looked at a paper on his desk.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Angua, you need to get down to the Lisle Brothers warehouse in the North Docks, Carrot is already there. There was a break in; a shipment bound for the Palace was stolen. Probably diplomatic papers or some other rubbish," he added derisively.

"Carrot's already there? When did he come on duty?" Angua asked. Vimes looked at her with an expression that said 'more to the point, when did he last go off duty?'. Angua shrugged slightly in acknowledgement, saluted casually, and left. Vimes turned to Sally.

"And you, Constable... do you know an Albrecht Drakule?"

Sally blinked.

"Sir?"

"Albrecht Drakule. Have you heard of him?"

"Um... yes, sir. Black Ribboner, twelve years under the Ribbon, lodges at Mrs Cake's boarding house, can't seem to stay in a job."

"Very good. You'll probably be meeting him today. He always complains about workplace hazards; you're on Front Desk Duty."


	2. Chapter 2

NOTE: Well, here's the second chapter... probably all downhill from here, but there you go...

Big thanks to eris86 for first review!

----------

Angua made her way through the back streets to the Docks. She wasn't sure she could sort out another three accidents on the main roads without tearing someone's throat out, so she wandered through the shades. She needn't worry about thieves or muggers; the denizens of the Shades had developed a sixth sense since Biers had opened, and the Thieves Guild was rumoured to give a lecture entitle "Why not to jump watchmen, especially the blonde woman with the unnerving smile".

She found the right Warehouse easily enough; it was the one with a lot of Watchmen clustering round the doorway, trying to get into the slightly-warmer air inside the huge building.

Angua walked up to the crowd of Coppers and coughed. The man pushing at the back turned, quickly fumbled a salute and stood out of her way. The others, hearing the crunch of his boots on the snow, turned and quickly followed suit. Angua had to admit; being a werewolf had its advantages; it was always a good thing for recruits to be terrified of their superiors (an ethic enforced in almost every organisation in the mulitverse, particularly the Civil Service).

Angua found Carrot talking to a terrified man about half Carrot's height, and, somehow, looking terrified when confronted with Carrot's Good Cop-Bad Cop routine (the difference between Carrot's version and everyone else's was that Carrot never bothered to include the Bad Cop).

As Angua approached, Carrot snapped shut his notebook, and said,

"We're very grateful for your help, Mr Williams. Rest assured, Watch Investigations will be continuing."

The man's expression made it quite clear that Watch Investigations were the least of his worries, and Angua remembered the shipment was headed to the Palace. She almost sympathised with the small man. He jumped as Angua stepped out of the shadows surrounding him and Carrot, gave one last frantic look at Carrot, and hurtled towards a small office off the main floor. Carrot turned.

"The poor man is terrified of losing his job over this. I'm sure the Guild of Carters and Drovers will be more understanding than that."

Angua, surprised by neither the lack of greeting nor the naivety of Carrot's statement, shrugged.

"What went missing?"

Carrot flipped open his notebook again, and began pacing the aisle of the warehouse.

"The shipment arrived from an Ankh-Morporkian army depot in Vieuxrive yesterday, and was bound for the palace-"

"Vieuxrive?" Angua asked. "Ankh-Morporkian army depot?"

"Oh yes," Carrot replied. "It's like the whole Borogravian expedition. Vieuxrive is the name for the fertile plains at the base of the Trollbane Mountains where the River Vieux leaves the foothills, there are rumours of entire cities of the old Morpokian Empire lost in the forests and swamps there, it was occupied by Tacticus in-"

"Carrot," Angua said abruptly, "I don't need a history lesson, just the facts. Please," she added as an afterthought. Angua knew she was never her best before breakfast.

"Well, anyway," Carrot continued, as though there had been no interruption, abrupt or otherwise, "there was some tension between some of the old territories in the Widdershins part of the old Dark Empire and the city of Genua. The Patrician sent a few of the new Regiments out there, to diffuse tensions and avoid bloodshed and the terrible loss of life it could cause."

"And the disruption of Genuan trade?" Angua asked.

"I'm sure Lord Vetinari took that into consideration," Carrot admitted, "but I'm certain his primary intention was to save lives."

Angua rolled her eyes as Carrot looked at his notebook again. Vetinari knew the clout of trade; Genua and the Old Dark Empire provinces like Alterfelsen could afford the price of a skirmish on the Vieuxrive plains, but if they had to attack Morporkian soldiers to fight each other, neither could afford the tariffs the City would impose in response, or the debts that could be called in.

"So what were some soldiers sending the Patrician?" Angua asked.

Carrot shrugged.

"That's just it. No one in the Warehouse knows. The Palace has made it quite clear that all customs inspections on deliveries for the Palace will be carried out by the Palace Clerks and no one else, so we have no idea what is in the box."

"Oh," Angua snorted, "great. A mystery."

Carrot, impervious to sarcasm, raised an eyebrow.

"Well, it is a mystery, but I don't see what's so great about it..."

Angua waved a hand in the international gesture for never mind, and instead asked,

"So, you want me to have a sniff around?" Carrot nodded gravely.

"That is, if you feel up to it; it is getting close to full moon, I know..."

Angua smiled wanly as she unbuckled her sword and removed her helmet.

"I think I can just about cope. It isn't as if this is a fish market."

----------

Several hours later, Angua was braving the showers of the Watch House. It was absolutely typical, she thought, that once she had mentioned a fish market, the trail of the thieves had gone straight past the fish market area of the docks. It had taken a lot of self control not to change back to human in the middle of the market just to try and lessen the effects of the stench, but when some idiot fisherman had had the audacity to throw a rotten fish at "the poor little stray dog, needs something to eat", she had come within a leap of disembowelling the man.

It was no good; the smell wasn't leaving of its own accord.

Angua wrapped a towel around herself and peered around the locker room. She then went to the door and listened. Satisfied no one was coming, she opened her locker, and rummaged around the bottom for a moment before pulling her hand out, clutching a bottle proclaiming itself to be "Mr and Mrs Waggy's Perfect Shine Pet Shampoo".

Another furtive listen at the door and Angua returned to the shower. She might use pet's sanitary products, but she'd be damned if she'd let Sally know that.

----------

Vimes was walking. He did his best thinking when walking, for some reasons a biologist had once explained to him and which he had instantly forgotten. Carrot walked alongside his commander, greeting everyone they passed.

"So," Vimes said, "we've got a missing diplomatic shipment. Could anyone have tampered with the shipment after it left the depot? Could anyone have added something else that the thieves knew about and collected?"

"No sir," Carrot answered, "under Discwide law, diplomatic shipments can't be opened by a third party. It's the same as diplomatic letters or items carried by an ambassador; diplomatic immunity. Morning, Mr Ironshield."

"Hmm," Vimes grunted, remembering the embassy in Bonk. Diplomatic Immunity was very useful for states to spy on each other; he'd bet that Vetinari didn't let a single secret correspondence leave the city without being read by a Dark Clerk, immune or not, and there was no reason to believe other Heads of State were any less devious. Vimes put the "third party drop and collect" theory into the mental pile marked 'not impossible'. The problem with that pile was it was so full.

"What was in the shipment?" he asked.

"We haven't got a clue sir," Carrot replied promptly, "customs and excise can't interfere with Diplomatic packages. Good day, Dunite."

"Right," Vimes said, "send a clacks to the Army depot, tell them the Duke of Ankh needs to know what was in that box. Duke is meant to be a military commander, after all; it's an order."

"They don't have a clacks out there, sir," Carrot replied, like the fount of all knowledge. "It's about a hundred miles to the nearest Clacks tower."

"What about those little light boxes they carry?" Vimes asked, "Why can't they just use them? It worked in Borogravia."

Carrot shook his head.

"They can't spare the men and logistical support to maintain nightly posts across the plains. It's just not feasible. Hello, Mrs Beam."

Vimes took a deep breath. Carrot had all the answers; it was at once one of his most valuable features, and also one of his most annoying.

He tried to think clearly. Firstly; what was in the box? Check with the warehouse workers how heavy the box was, if it rattled, any indication whatsoever. Secondly; how long had it been in transit, and how? Check any paperwork left at the warehouse. Thirdly; how urgently was Vetinari trying to find it? Check up on the Dark Clerk's activities; Quis Custodiet ipsos Custodes? Who Watches the Watchers? Cable Street, that was who. They watched the Dark Clerks too.

Vimes' train of thought was interrupted as his eyes managed to alert his brain to what was happening on the road ahead. At the crossroad, a column of figures were walking across the path of Vimes and Carrot, with people standing aside, some waving, all watching.

As the Watchmen drew level, Vimes could see that the figures walking were in fact soldiers marching. Under grey woollen greatcoats he could make out the steel breastplates and green jackets of the Ankh-Morpork professional regiments. Vimes had once entertained the idea that the green jacket was a rare sign of intelligence in the Ankh-Morpork army's history, giving soldiers camouflage on the battlefield. He had since learnt that green dye was the cheapest available on the Cabbage saturated Sto Plains, and that the only reason extra money hadn't been forked out for red coats was that Borogravia had already done so, and no self respecting Morporkian was going to look like some common Borogravian foot slogger.

Vimes noticed something about the way the soldiers walked. He spoke to Carrot, suddenly viewing his encyclopaedic knowledge an asset rather than an irritant.

"Captain... the regiments were only formed two years ago, after the Leshp bugg- fiasco, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Carrot replied.

"Then why do these men look as if they've been fighting all their lives?" Even as Vimes said it, he knew that it was a stupid question; in Ankh-Morpork, you were one of three things; a born fighter, a born aristocrat or a born dead man walking, but these men marched with a swagger that Vimes knew took years to perfect. It was a walk that all official forces used, military and civil, and said 'We're good at what we do. And now we're about to do it to you'.

"Most of the regiments are made up of mercenaries, sir," Carrot explained. "They are Ankh-Morpork lads who went out into the world to sell their skills, and jumped at the chance to come home and get a regular salary with holidays for a job they were doing anyway."

Vimes nodded. He remembered reading something about Morporkian mercenaries flocking to the City, but he had thought it was something to do with the Morporkian Beer Festival that had been just round the corner when that edition of the Times had gone to print.

A group of horses, heads down and breath misting, trotting slowly to avoid slipping on the ice, followed the soldiers. The men sitting on the horses wore the same greatcoats, collars up around their facts, helmets pulled low. Under the hats were the finely structured faces of the rich and aristocratic families of the City, and the way the men sat enforced that view on Vimes. The only thing that spoiled the image was their weapons; Vimes noted the long, straight, heavy blades the horsemen had strapped to their saddles; these weren't light sabres for tickling each other with while wearing sieves on your face; these were killing blades.

The overall effect was sobering on Vimes; he had spent all his life dealing with murderers and cutthroats, and Gods knew he had done his share of running around when the family Regiments were raised two years ago, but seeing a group of disciplined men kitted out to kill was different. A murderer was someone who could kill, through greed or anger or fear or joy of killing, but these men were killers. Men who killed methodically, efficiently and without emotion, except perhaps professional pride. The sight made Vimes wish the armoury was built closer to the walls, so that the men had no excuse for marching through his streets thus armed.

The horsemen came closer, and the leader nodded to the two watchmen.

"Good morning, Captain Carrot," he said, raising his (plumed) helmet. The man was good looking, with wavy, blond hair, cut short, blue eyes and fine bone structure. Vimes could see in his face and hear in his voice all the signs of aristocracy, and immediately began considering what he could be arrested for.

"Good morning, Colonel," Carrot replied, giving the man a salute.

"His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, I presume," the man continued as his horse passed Vimes. "I hope to have the pleasure of your company during at least one of the ghastly balls I shall no doubt be expected to attend." He winked at Vimes, and turned as the horsemen moved on, followed only by a wagon piled high with packs of personal items of the regiment, before the road was clear again.

"Alright, Captain," Vimes said as they continued their beat. "Tell me who that was and how you know him."

"It was Colonel Marten, sir. He's been leading Morporkian mercenaries since he was 16. Now he's 32 and just finished his command of the Vieuxrive mission. He's a city her-"

"Vieuxrive?"

"Yes, sir."

Vimes smiled grimly.

"And he just happens to arrive back the morning after a package from his station is stolen?" Maybe this won't be such a hard case after all. "Come on, Captain, we're going to Cable Street.


	3. Chapter 3

NOTE: OK, the madness continues... again, many thanks to all who have reviewed... and, eris86?... "distinct lack of plotholes so far"?... thanks, but give me time, give me time... : P

----------

Angua had, by dint of much effort, successfully removed the smell of fish from her person and belongings. The side effect was that her armour and chainmail had been cleaned so thoroughly it rivalled Carrot's for shine, and smelt strongly of soap and polish. Angua was therefore fighting hard against the instinct to skulk rather than walk, and glared hard at any watchman who looked like making a comment on her appearance. She might be a... friend... of Carrot's, but she didn't have his patience, or tolerance for jokes.

Angua walked into the main office, and came to a halt. She blinked. She considered turning around, walking out, and walking in again to see if that made it any better. No, she thought, probably not.

The office was silent, except for the scratching of quills and the occasional sound of someone sipping coffee. In total, twelve watchmen were in the room, eight of them industriously writing reports and three of them silently watching the writers, and casting furtive glances at the twelfth and final copper.

Sally sat at the front desk, in a manner that suggested humming without actually making a sound. Angua walked over to her, the sound of her boots on the floor seeming suspiciously loud in the silence.

"Sally..." she said cautiously; "are you... alright?"

Sally turned, smiling happily, and Angua was pleased, and slightly surprised, to see no sign of the manic-x-factor lust on her face she had seen on several black ribboners who had become slightly... raucous. On the other hand, Angua was now even more worried as to how the hell the atmosphere had turned into this.

"Hi, Angua," Sally replied, "I'm fine... the number of complaints has really dropped off this afternoon. Is that fish?"

The only way Angua resisted the urge to either punch or throttle the vampire was because she caught herself as she was deciding which would be more enjoyable. There was no way in hell Sally could have picked up a scent of fish... she might have perfect hearing and a damn good sense of smell, but there wasn't a vampire alive (Ha!) that could out smell a werewolf. Instead, Angua ignored the question, and looked at the shift In Tray.

All reports that weren't urgent were left until the end of the shift in the In Tray, before being taken up to Vime's office and transferred to his In Tr- In Floor. To Angua's amazement there were only three pieces of paper.

"Albrecht Drakule has been in again then... working in a silversmith?"

"Yeah," Sally replied, "you know that the biggest threat to Vampires is what we believe can hurt us?"

"Yes..."

"And most vampires are born with deep beliefs of the danger of holy symbols, stakes through the heart, and so on..."

"Go on..."

"Well, some scholars have begun wondering why holy symbols are so harmful, and they think it is because so many holy symbols are made of silver... after all, silver has... odd properties, look what it does to werewolves, and humans like lumping vampires and werewolves together..."

"I had noticed," Angua replied dryly. Hell, even our lockers are next to each other, never mind the new Beat rota...

"Well, Albrecht had been reading recently, and he had begun to believe in that." Sally concluded.

"So he got a job in a silversmith to test this theory?"

"No," Sally replied, "he got a job in a silversmith to pay the rent."

"And now," Angua continued, reading Sally's shorthand on the report, "he wants action taken against Argentum Silversmiths for poor workplace safety particularly with reference to... good grief... salespeople?"

"I understand his job consisted of showing people the products, getting them out of the locked cabinets for closer looks, packing them, and resizing any rings to the correct finger size," Sally said calmly.

Angua shook her head slightly and put the report down, picking up the next one.

"Ha... I see Argentum Silversmiths want action taken against Mr Drakule for 'Conduct likely to have a harmful effect on profit margins', including... collapsing to ash in front of customers?"

"I can see why that might have adverse effects on making a sale," Sally replied. The door opened. A short man came striding into the office, evidently completely ready to make a very vocal complaint about a very trivial matter. He stormed up to the desk, leant over, placing his hands firmly on the old wood, opened his mouth...

"Hello, sir, can I help you?" Sally asked sweetly, before he could get a word out. She smiled helpfully. Well, smiled anyway. Perhaps it was more of a grin, really. And, after all, you couldn't blame her for having long teeth or eyes that, in a certain light, looked sort of red-ish...

The man suddenly seemed to lose purpose. He stuttered over his words, as Sally's grin... and her incisors... seemed to increase in size.

"I... uh... I was... –ulp... um... I just wanted to... uh... to..." he seemed to have a sudden inspiration, "to congratulate the watch on keeping our streets safe! Yes! That's it! Well done!" With that, the man turned and left the Watch House as fast as reasonably possible without running.

Angua raised an eyebrow, looking slowly from Sally's suddenly very innocent face to the remarkably empty In Tray.

"I can see you are a people person, Constable," she said, helping herself to Sally's coffee. "Keep up the good work."

It was at that moment Rufus Drumknott walked in.

----------

Cable Street was an entirely new organisation; a new kind of Watch for a new kind of Crime, Carrot had once described it as. Vimes had set it up on the principle that for secret crimes, you need secret policemen. Vimes had been strict though; in other states, Secret Policemen could beat, torture, humiliate, degrade and even kill prisoners. Vimes made sure Cable Street gave prisoners the (extensive) rights laid down in the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork (every time Vimes, Angua, Colon or Nobby tried to hide or destroy it, Carrot would produce a new copy of it... it worried Vimes sometimes, it really did).

Now, Cable Street was a strange mix between the Palace and Pseudopolis Yard. The Dark Clerks at the Palace kept an eye on the secret happenings of state and commerce, the Watch kept an eye on the public happenings of the City's people, and Cable Street kept an eye on the secret happenings of the City's people. It also had a special, particularly secret department Vimes had created, to keep an eye on the Palace and the Dark Clerks. It sometimes crossed his mind that Vetinari could have walked into the offices off Cable Street and done exactly the same to keep an eye on Vimes.

The main difference between the Cable Street building and the Yard was that Cable Street had a small, quiet reception desk, with all of the bustle and work taking place in a dozen rooms around it. Other than the desk, the room was plain, except for a coat of arms on the wall behind the desk, which was simply a morpork owl on the back of a hippo, with the words "Regnum Defende" below it.

There was a woman sitting at the reception desk, dressed in dark, plain clothes. As they walked in, she put down whatever Times supplement magazine she had been reading and smiled the smile of all receptionists everywhere (with the single exception of Constable von Humpeding).

"Good afternoon, welcome to Ankh House, how- oh, hello Captain Carrot."

"Hello, Miss Dollarcent. I hope your aunt is getting better?"

"Yes, thank you, Captain. She said if I saw you, to say thank you for the help with getting to and from the hospital."

That was of course Carrot all over. Knows everyone, helps little old ladies to cross the street, and so on. However, before everyone started to think this was a purely social outing, Vimes had to take control.

"Alright, Captain, enough socialising... now, Miss Dollarpenny, we're here-"

"Dollarcent." The receptionist said coldly.

"- to... what?"

"It's Miss Millicent Dollarcent. I take it Your Grace is here to see Mister Throckmorton. He will see you now."

Vimes was nonplussed. Despite his refusal to accept his noble rank as anything other than an uncomfortable fact, a bit like the fact that Nobby Nobbs was a Watchman, he felt deep down that a secretary should not dominate a conversation with a duke and still refer to him by his title. He recovered slightly, taking refuge in sarcasm;

"I don't suppose Mister Throckmorton would like to know that we're here to see him first?"

"Mister Throckmorton already knows, Your Grace. This way, Captain Carrot. Your Grace."

Vimes and Carrot followed Miss Dollarcent along a corridor, up two flights of stairs, and down another corridor. She knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, listened intently, then ushered Vimes and Carrot in before heading back downstairs.

There were two other people in the room; a woman, whose clothes, demeanour and desk all screamed secretary, and a man sitting behind a plain desk, wearing what could only be described as a dinner suit, that, due to the lack of tie, waistcoat, top button on shirt, and, apparently, iron, had lost the majority of formality associated with a dinner suit.

Vimes instantly began evaluating the man; the office was plain, no over the top decoration, just a picture of Morporkia on one wall, and a desk made of unpolished wood. The paint was peeling in some places, and the floorboards creaked; this was the office of a man who cared more for the job than the aesthetics. The man himself had a short beard, the only part of his appearance that seemed groomed. His hair was scruffy, his clothes un-ironed and his collar undone. Vimes found himself warming to Mister Throckmorton already. Mister, too, no two letter prefix for this man; Mister Vimes was finding more to like.

Vimes hadn't met Throckmorton more than twice, both times in Vetinari's office. The first time had been when Throckmorton had been Undersecretary (which is different to Personal Secretary) to the man Vimes had put in charge of Cable Street, Alain Behn, and Vetinari gave his consent to the expansion in Watch Budget to cover Cable Street. The second time had again been in Vetinari's office, when Vetinari had informed both Vimes and the newly promoted Throckmorton that Cable Street would become autonomous of Pseudopolis Yard. On both occasions, Vimes had been too busy trying to suss out Vetinari's motives for the move to pay attention to the quiet man with the knowing half smile.

"What brings you to our humble operation, Mister Vimes?" the man asked, half rising out of his seat, extending a hand across the desk. Vimes shook the proffered hand, as Carrot did after him, and both men took the seats indicated by Throckmorton.

"We need information on a man, Mister... look, do you have a first name I could call you?" Get them comfortable, Vimes knew... men are always more ready to talk to people they are on first name terms with.

"Francis Throckmorton, Sir Samuel," the man replied, switching to using Vimes' first name in response. Vimes smiled grimly; good to see the man in charge knew what he was doing. "This man," Throckmorton continued, "would he by any chance be Sir Jonathon, Colonel Marten of the 2nd Morporkian Guards?"

Vimes carefully didn't show any surprise at the accuracy of Throckmorton's guess.

"That's what I need to know, Francis. The man is a Colonel, name of Marten. I'm here to find out more. Mind if I smoke?"

"One second, Sir Samuel." Throckmorton reached up to a peg on the wall behind him, lifted a tube from it, and spoke into it; "Dollarcent? Can you hear me, Millicent?"

The reply sounded to Vimes, on the other side of the room, like a mouse squeaking. Speaking tubes, eh? Using the latest technology to fight crime; no doubt Carrot would say the Watch could learn from them. Throckmorton continued; "please send Quill up with the CJM file, and an ash tray for Sir Samuel." He replaced the tube. "Feel free to light up now, Sir Samuel," he reached into his jacket and produced a box of matches, pushing them across the desk. By what Vimes couldn't believe was coincidence, they were exactly the same make of matches that he carried in his own pocket. He accepted them, and proceeded to produce a cigar and light it. He took a few experimental puffs on it.

"Very good, Francis. You suspect I want to know about something related to the diplomatic shipment, and you know both it and Marten have just returned from Vieuxrive, and guess I came to ask about Marten. You make the preparations to tell me about him, all based on a guess, and look as if you know everything already. Very, very good."

Throckmorton smiled.

"If that supposition gives you any happiness, Sir Samuel, then, by all means, you have seen right through us."

Vimes smiled back. The man knew all the tricks, and was as devious a bastard as any man Vimes had met in a long time. Pity he wasn't in the Watch; he'd make sergeant within a week.

There was a knocking at the door. Throckmorton looked up.

"Come in, Quill."

The door opened, and a man stepped in with a boxfile under his arm and an ashtray in his hand. He was dressed in the uniform of the men Vimes had seen marching earlier, the green jacket and black breeches. He had rid himself of the breastplate, and undone the jacket to reveal a white vest underneath. He was stained with sweat and mud, evidence of a long march. He came to attention and was about to throw a salute, and stopped himself (which was a good thing, as he would have brained himself with the ashtray). He smiled and shrugged.

"Force of habit. You called sir? Hello, Captain Carrot," his voice sounded what most would call "well-bred", and Vimes noticed on the shoulder of his jacket a crown and two pips.

"Afternoon, Tim", Throckmorton said. "Sir Samuel, meet Timothy Quill. He's been travelling with the 2nd Morporkian Guards for the past year or so, under the alias of Captain Elliot Pictonne. Arrived back this morning with the regiment, and, as you can see, an expanded file on its illustrious commander." He motioned to Vimes, and Quill handed the box file to him.

"Do you spy on all officers?" Vimes asked, opening the box file and being confronted with a huge sheaf of papers.

"Come now, Sir Samuel," Throckmorton said, "Marten is a man with almost a thousand trained and armed men who are loyal to him above City and Patrician. He is a man with noble blood, whose great grandfather was a Patrician. He's got a chest full of medals and the press, and subsequently the mob, love him. We need to know the second he has any delusions of grandeur."

Vimes just grunted. After all, if he thought that Cable Street wasn't keeping an eye on the man, would he have come here?

He read the top sheet.

"'2nd Morporkian Guards; Nulli Secundus'... second... zero?"

"Second to None, Sir Samuel," Throckmorton corrected. "The 1st Morporkian Guards were the regiment Lord Rust raised during the Leshp crisis. Following the resolution, when the Patrician raised the Professional Regiments, the Guilds voted overwhelmingly for the 1st to be struck from the records, due to Rust's complete failure to show even an iota of military talent. Therefore the 2nd Morporkian Guards are second to a nonexistent regiment; Second to None."

Vimes nodded. The reports were incredibly detailed; Marten's parents (both from noble houses), their parents (more of the same), and even their parents (Upper Ankh, every one of them). His siblings; none. His school; Assassin's Guild, graduated with honours, the names of every one of his classmates and teachers. Left the city, as soon as he had his diploma, to join the Wolves of Morpork, a mercenary regiment exclusively recruiting from the City. The details of his actions in every single skirmish and battle the Wolves had fought in were there in incredible detail. It seemed as if the man couldn't sneeze without Cable Street finding out.

"Alright," he said, "just condense this into what has happened since he was sent to Vieuxrive."

Quill replied. The answer was far more detailed than Vimes needed, including quite a few details of affairs between Soldiers and local women that had resulted in Court Martials, that Vimes really didn't need to know. As far as he could tell, the details he needed went;

Marten had jumped at the chance for a foreign assignment, particularly after being turned down by Rust (still sore from the loss of his regiment) for the Borogravia expedition. The men had been getting restless, and being the only Ankh-Morpork regiment for hundreds of miles would give them some of the autonomy they were used to.

When neither of the protagonists in Vieuxrive seemed willing to start trouble with the 2nd Guards in the region, it seemed some of the men began to get restless. Marten arranged manoeuvres with both the Genuan military and the Alterfelsen army, both separately and jointly. Due to his actions, relations between the governments had been repaired almost overnight. Diplomatic correspondence between the two states and Ankh-Morpork had leapt up, and the regiment had been recalled. The two nights before they dismantled the Army depot and returned to the City, Marten and his officers had been guests at Balls held in their honour by both the Genuan government and the Alterfelsen officials. The man was a damn Prodigy.

Vimes sighed. Suddenly, there seemed to be a dead end.

"Francis," Vimes said, putting the papers back in their box file, and handing it to Carrot, "I expect you know more about your organisation than I do. Do you still take orders from me?"

Suddenly, Throckmorton looked very serious. His secretary, who had been copying some papers, suddenly paused, staring into nothing. Quill, who had been about to take the box file back, stopped, arms outstretched.

"Sir Samuel," he began carefully, "the Commander of the Watch is more than welcome to enter into joint operations with Cable Street. Orders cannot pass between Pseudopolis Yard and Cable Street, in either direction. However," he paused, scrutinising Vimes. "However... the Duke of Ankh may give orders to Cable Street. It is all written into the law, when Vetinari allowed Cable Street to be established."

Now it was Vimes' turn to lean forward.

"When Cable Street was established, the title Duke of Ankh hadn't existed for over a century."

Throckmorton nodded.

"They say the Gods move in mysterious ways."

"I don't think much of the Gods," Vimes replied.

"Neither do I," Throckmorton answered, "but I think His Lordship could give any one of them a run for their money."

----------

NOTE: Incidentally, the vampire-silver reaction thing might be a real theory... I got it off a flatmate last year, and, yes, he was a Yorkshireman, but then again he knows a lot about Rock and Roll... and Rock and Roll and vampires kind of go together... ahem.


	4. Chapter 4

NOTE: Thanks once again to all the reviews… Vetinari's Eyes; don't worry, his Lordship shall be along in the next chapter, I promise! And eris86, I've got the motive all sorted out… it's just bloody hard getting it into the story without giving everything away! I'll try to get as much as possible of it into the Hogswatch Ball…

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"What do you make of him, Captain?" Vimes asked, once he and Carrot were clear of Cable Street.

"Colonel Marten?" Carrot said.

"No, Mister Francis Throckmorton," Vimes replied. "How far do you trust him?"... which was a silly question to ask, really, as Carrot, in a worryingly naive way, trusted everyone completely. In an equally worrying way, everyone around Carrot worked hard to be worthy of that trust.

"He's a man that... has few morals, sir," Carrot said, which, coming from him, was a damning indictment. "He seemed to be the kind of person who thinks the ends will always justify the means."

Vimes nodded thoughtfully. Carrot was the kind of person to notice that; Vimes saw a devious bastard and thought "he should be good at the job"; Carrot saw the same devious bastard and thought "why does he act like that?".

"Alright, Captain... take the file back to the Yard. Then, start interviewing the workers who handled the crate, find out it's exact size, weight and how much it rattled. After that, come and find me at home with that file. Bring Angua; we need to go over the Hogswatch Ball."

"Yes sir," Carrot saluted, wondering what had caused his Commander to mention the Ball without the usual venom. "Where will you be if I need to contact you, sir?"

"At home, Captain. It's almost twenty to six already."

----------

The clock struck seven. Little Sam was asleep with The Book under one arm. Vimes stood and stretched, as quietly as possible. The kid really was getting too old for the book; last week, he had read it by himself, to the amazement of Vimes, until he found out that Sam had just memorised the words and where to turn the pages, duping Vimes for a good half hour. The kid would make a good copper some day.

As quietly as possible, Vimes left the room; Carrot and Angua would have arrived by now, so Vimes conducted a quick check first; no blue duck covered shawl, no shaving cream still on face, and all clothes in place; Carrot had a habit of arriving at bad times, leaving him open to seeing Vimes at all stages of his daily routine.

He quietly left the room, and walked down the stairs. Wilikins was standing at the foot of the staircase with a mug of coffee in one hand, still hot. Vimes accepted it gratefully.

"Captain Ironfoundersson and Sergeant von Uberwald are waiting for you in the library, sir," the butler informed him. Vimes nodded in a tired way, sipping the coffee.

Vimes walked into the library, and found Carrot and Angua (her armour suspiciously clean) sitting in two of the armchairs. They were good armchairs, in so much as they were comfortable and sturdy, but the comfort came at the cost of very soft cushions; it was clear from the way both Carrot and Angua were sitting, rigid and straight backed, that they were having difficultly avoiding being swallowed by their chairs.

They both started to rise as Vimes entered, but he waved them back down, resulting in what could have been a slight yelp as Angua found herself fighting against the pull of the chair. By the time Vimes had sat down in his own chair (with a specially purchased cushion which didn't attempt to eat the sitter), the sergeant had regained control and composure.

"What have you learnt about the shipment?" Vimes broke the silence.

"Not much sir... although the men who unloaded it from the barge said it was the same kind of weight as a loosely packed box of horseshoes. There was no rattling or rustling sir; sounds like whatever it was was packed pretty tight."

Vimes sighed.

"So we have a heavy crate which has gone missing. Well, if we can't find out from the people who unloaded it, we'll have to go to the people who packed it." He sipped his coffee. "I want the top 13 officers of the 2nd Guards' at the Watch Hogswatch Ball, including Marten."

"Are you sure that's... wise, sir?" Angua asked, cautiously. "If we suspect them of involvement in the crime, do we really want them to see the state Coppers get in after a few pints?"

"Suspect them of involvement, Sergeant?" Vimes replied. "Who ever suggested such a thing?"

Angua met his innocent gaze with a look that said "You don't have to". Vimes dropped the act; truth be told, if Angua hadn't already realised he was suspicious of the soldiers, she wouldn't have made a good sergeant.

"Alright; look through that file, and get invitations out to the company Captains of the Regiment, the majors and Marten himself. You're to deliver his invite personally, Sergeant. In the meantime..." Vimes turned to Carrot, "I want you on another case. If the thieves are watching us, I want them to think we're writing it off as unimportant."

"Yes, sir," Carrot replied. "But, sir... why do we think this is so important? I mean more so than any other crime?"

Vimes stared at Carrot hard.

"Captain, between nine hundred and a thousand armed men have just marched into this City, and a shipment that no one, anywhere out side the Palace, is allowed to even think of opening, goes missing almost as they arrive, and this package is from these soldiers! You do know what happened the last time soldiers were garrisoned in the City?"

"Yes, sir," Carrot replied, "they quickly left to sail for Klatch-"

"I meant before that," Vimes snapped, "I meant the 25th of May. I am not going to have even the slightest risk of that happening again!"

Vimes stood up. "Right. Angua, get those invitations written, ask Cable Street for the names and addresses of the officers if you need to, then-"

"Rufus Drumknott delivered a file from the Palace to the Yard earlier today, sir," Angua cut in. "It was when Sally was on desk duty. The file has information of all of the Officers in the Regiment, and a short list of the most important." She paused. "Company Captains up."

Vimes sat down again, frowning. Damn him! Vetinari knew something, but rather than do the decent thing, and tell him, he was dropping clues. Damn that man! He'd heard that particularly subtle political puppet-masters were now referred to as "Vetinarian" Discwide (which had led to a series of rather unamusing animal jokes), and Vimes couldn't help feeling that he was practise for Vetinari; practise being a devious bastard on Commander Vimes, then try it on the rest of the world.

Vimes sighed. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, he thought; it might bite your nose off.

"Okay. Invite all of the people on their short list. Then, tomorrow..." Vimes pulled a cigar from a pocket, reached towards the fire, pulled a red hot coal from it with the tongs, and applied the coal to the cigar. He took a deep drag on it. "Well, tomorrow is a Great Big Fish."

"Don't mention fish," Angua muttered.

----------

Angua and Sally were finishing their day as they had begun; walking through the snow. The sun had sunk hours ago, but the night was still young, and the pair passed as many carts and street merchants as when they had come into work this morning.

"Okay, there's just one more to deliver," Angua said, staring at the envelope in her hand. In the best copperplate hand writing Sally could come up with (she was a vampire, copperplate writing was a skill second only to gothic writing) were the words "To Colonel Sir Jonathon Marten VE, OME, C/O 2nd Morporkian Guards, 12 Park Drive".

Sally looked over Angua's shoulder.

"You don't think we went a little overboard on the letters, do you?" she asked. Angua shrugged;

"It's not as if they're not all accurate. Vetinari Eye for gallantry, Order of the Morporkian Empire for services to the city, Commanding Officer of the Guards... have you seen how many letters Mister Vimes has after his name?"

Sally shook her head. Angua, who knew Vimes' attitude towards his titles and had a keen instinct for self preservation, leant close to Sally and whispered something in her ear. The whispering when on for quite some time.

"Really that many?" Sally said at last. Angua nodded.

"That many. I saw an invitation he got to some function at the Uberwaldian embassy. They had to use two sheets of paper."

The pair of undead officers turned into Park Drive. Park Drive was a very exclusive area, just off Park Lane; it was a cul-de-sac that had 13 houses on it, all terraced, but the houses themselves were huge, rumoured to have room for 8 bedrooms and servants quarters for up to 20. Suffice to say, the general decorum of the buildings made Sally wish she had polished her armour a bit more thoroughly that morning, and Angua wish her hair didn't smell of "Mr and Mrs Waggy's".

They stepped up the steps to number twelve, and tugged the bell-pull. Almost immediately a man who could have been the twin brother of Wilikins answered the door.

"May I be of assistance to you, ladies?" he asked, in the perfectly polished butler's voice.

"We have a letter for Sir Jonathon," Angua replied, holding out the envelope. The butler, surprisingly, didn't take it.

"Of course," he said smoothly, "if you ladies would care to step inside, I shall endeavour to discover if Sir Jonathon is available."

Sally and Angua found themselves being ushered into what they guessed would be termed the Drawing Room. Angua began looking for anything that could tell her more about the man they were about to meet.

The room was warmly lit, and the furniture looked comfortable and stylish rather than antique. Above the fireplace was a painting of a blonde man with a rather severe expression, dressed in a smart suit, sitting front of a window, the view from which Angua recognised as the view from the Oblong Office. So... that must be Sir Jonathon's Great Grandfather, the Patrician. The last Patrician before Vetinari not linked to one Guild or other.

As Angua looked for any hints as to the nature of the room's owner, she realised that while the room was carefully designed to look exactly how such a room should, in any house owned by an old family, there was nothing, other than the portrait, that linked to the family; the silverware on the sideboard had no family crest, and furniture had no telltale maker's mark, not even the crossed swords above the door could be identified as from any particular period. It was almost as if the decor had been designed with neutrality in mind...

The door behind the two women opened. Sir Jonathon Marten walked in. He was dressed as any modern city gentleman would be; white shirt, dark waistcoat and cravat, well polished shoes, dark and smart trousers. He smiled at the two Watchwomen.

"When I last had the privilege to speak with a Watchman, he introduced himself to me as a Corporal Nobbs," he said, "I am happy to see the appearance of Watch Officers has improved so remarkably since then." He extended a hand to Angua. "I am Jonathon Marten, I have the honour to command the 2nd Morporkian Guards."

Angua replied,

"Sir Jonathon, I'm Sergeant Angua von Uberwald of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch," she took the proffered hand, "and this is-"

By a quick movement of his hand, Marten took Angua's hand, not in a handshake, but gently holding her hand at chest level, and bowed over it. To Angua's surprise, he didn't attempt to kiss her hand; instead she felt his breath on her fingers briefly as he bowed, the perfect gentleman, as he said,

"My dear Sergeant, of course," he released her hand, "and how, may I ask, is the remarkable Captain Carrot? It has been a good year since we last met; he was good enough to assist in the breaking up of a most regrettable drunken brawl involving some of my... less disciplined soldiers."

Angua suddenly found herself on the back foot.

"He's well..." she was about to add 'and please, call me Angua', but caught herself. Watch Sergeants do not allow themselves to be charmed by suspected criminals, especially not when on duty. She tried to continue, "We've brought-" but was cut off once again by the Colonel.

"And who," he asked, turning to take Sally's hand, "is your delightful colleague?" He took Sally's hand and bowed again, this time slightly more elaborately, as Sally replied,

"My name is Salac-"

"Constable," Angua muttered.

"... Constable Salacia Delorisista Amanita Trigestrata Zeldana Malifee-" Sally caught Angua's expression, "...ahem... please, call me Sally,"

Gently releasing Sally's hand, Marten replied,

"To say I am delighted to make your acquaintance does not do the elation I feel justice."

Angua tried to take control of the conversation again,

"Sir Jonathon, we've been asked to deliver this-"

Marten eagerly took the envelope from Angua's outstretched hand, and extended a hand to the butler, who had followed him back into the drawing room.

"Of course, how rude of me to waylay you with idle chat! Please, take a seat," the butler handed him a letter opener, "and ask for anything you desire. Drinks?"

As he opened the envelope (not even looking at the name and titles on the envelope), Sally replied, taking a seat,

"Well, if you have a good port..."

"No," Angua said, firmly, looking at Sally but talking to Marten. "Watch Officers do not drink on Duty."

Marten smiled,

"Of course. Forgive me for subjecting you to temptation." He looked at the (gilt edged) invitation. His eyes widened in surprise. "The City Watch Hogswatch Ball? I must say, I generally find Balls and functions tedious..."

"Commander Vimes has invited you and some of your fellow officers to show appreciation for your work for the city" Gods, Angua thought, how can I say this and keep a straight face? "The Commander, myself and several other officers were part of the Ankh-Morpork detachment serving in Borogravia. While the Vieuxrive expedition has received less attention from the press, His Grace wants you to know it is appreciated no less." I should have gone into acting...

Marten blinked once, and then flashed his winning grin again.

"Of course, Sergeant, I cannot turn down an invitation for the Duke of Ankh, can I? And if the said Duke is the famous Sir Samuel Vimes, it would take a damn fool to turn down the opportunity to meet such a man!" He smoothly pocketed the invitation, handing envelope and letter opener back to his butler. "You're sure I cannot offer you ladies drinks?"

Angua stood up, and Sally reluctantly followed suit.

"I'm sure you can, Sir Jonathon, but we must decline. We'll have to be going now," Angua swallowed a bit of her pride and arrogance, and added "we look forward to your company tomorrow evening."

For some reason, she found herself saluting the man, and saw Sally perform an abortive curtsey, until she realised that doing so in a short leather Watch skirt wasn't a real option.

Marten smiled and opened the drawing room door. The butler went through and opened the front door. Marten replied,

"Believe me; I await the event with ill repressed enthusiasm." He returned Angua's salute, and as the women went through the door he held open for them, he took Sally's hand again and, now he felt they had made better acquaintance, planted a brief, gentle kiss on the vampire's fingers. To Angua's amazement, as the front door closed behind them, she saw the beginnings of a blush on Sally's normally untouchably calm countenance.

----------

The room was dark. It wasn't so dark that features couldn't be made out, but it was dark enough that no one in the room could quite make out the entire face of anyone else. It was, in short, the kind of lighting that conspirators who know each other would use, purely on the theory that conspiracies shouldn't be conducted in well aired, bright halls.

One of the seated figures spoke;

"The shipment is quite complete?"

"It is," replied one of the standing figures. "Five hundred of them, perfect condition."

"The watch are quite unaware of the identity of the items?" asked a third figure. The silhouettes of the men turned to one man, leaning against the wall. The figure took a pipe from its lips, and replied,

"As far as we can tell, they haven't a clue."

"And these invitations?" the third figure pressed. "They are not signs of their suspicions?"

The first figure spoke before the fourth could reply.

"Vimes is suspicious of everyone and everything, especially if a man doesn't sound as though he was born in the gutter. He has no evidence, nor shall he find any."

A bottle of fortified wine caught the light as a figure filled several glasses.

"Still, we cannot take any risks... if we all go to this damned Ball-"

"If any of us do not," interrupted the first, seated figure again, "then we shall be followed by Cable Street, our every move and every contact recorded. We go. All of us." The man lifted one of the filled glasses, and the others quickly followed suit as he rose from his chair. Once every man had a glass, the figure raised his own and said, "Gentlemen... as they say in Vieuxrive... Viva la Revolution."

----------

NOTE: Sorry about the length of chapters, but there really are some lines that just NEED to be at the end…


	5. Chapter 5

I think this story is starting to get to me… either that or I am eating too much cheese before bedtime. I had a dream in which Angua wrote off my car on the M6. It was probably revenge for what I've forced her into in Chapter 6…

Anyway, I know I say this every time, but I mean it every time too; thanks to everyone who's reviewed!

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Vimes woke up to the flaming of dragons. In the pens outside the window, he could hear the sounds of Swamp Dragons being fed. He rolled over, blinking, until his eyes stopped refusing to focus, and he stared at the clock on the wall.

Nine thirty, or near enough. Vimes groaned. He should have done a hundred things by now; Sybil (whose idea it had been to hold Watch Hogswatch Balls), would no doubt give him a very severe look. There were chefs to talk to, decorations to put up, all of the other tedious little tasks Vimes would normally loathe, but, now that they offered a chance to ensnare a criminal, an arrogant, overbearing, noble criminal at that, they took on a new light.

As Vimes stood, and, forgoing a bath and a shave (he'd have had to have a second one anyway, before the Ball... Sybil would insist), he began pulling on his uniform, which someone, undoubtedly Wilikins, had laid out for him in the dressing room.

There was also his helmet. Polished, and with a plume. Vimes ignored it; he had started keeping a spare, old, battered, and, above all, un-plumed helmet in his office at Pseudopolis Yard.

Wilikins had also left a mug of coffee on the dressing table. It was hot. Vimes, sipping the hot drink, wondered how Wilikins did it; no matter what unpredictable time Vimes had need of a coffee, there was always one waiting for him, piping hot.

Vimes descended the stairs, coffee still in hand. Wilikins was at the foot of the stairs, a box in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

"Good morning, sir," he said. "Lady Sybil has left to make arrangements for this evening sir. She left you this," he handed Vimes the box. Vimes opened it, and found a lettuce and tomato sandwich. On (much) closer inspection, there was some bacon, but not much. "And here, sir, is the morning paper," Wilikins concluded, handing over the second article.

"Anything important in it, Wilikins?" Vimes asked, handing over an empty mug in return.

"There is a rather lengthy article on Vieuxrive, sir, and an interview with Lord Vetinari on foreign policy."

"And the cartoon?"

"An image of a Colonel Marten defending the personification of Morporkia from Genuan and Alterfelsen soldiers, sir."

Vimes grunted. Trust the Times to misinterpret events; Marten hadn't done as much as wave a sword at either side, in anger at least, and here he was in the paper fighting to the death.

"No messages come from the Yard?"

"No, sir,"

Vimes nodded.

Today, the Watch was doing... nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Vimes had given orders that all investigations into the Diplomatic Shipment and the 2nd Guards had been stopped. Keep them worried. He knew all about that. If the culprits thought the Watch were onto them... and the demeanour all Watchmen conducted themselves with at all times made everyone thing the Watch was onto them... and saw nothing happening, they'd start to sweat. Let them imagine what the Watch could do to them, and then imagine some of the things the Watch couldn't do to them but might. Under the kind of pressure guilty men could put themselves, someone might break.

And if no one broke, it would keep them guessing.

Carrot was down in the Dwarf Mine below the City; now that Watch Authority was recognised down there, they needed to decide on what paths beats should take. Sally had actually volunteered for desk duty again, for reasons beyond Vimes. Detritus was still pursuing his vendetta against the City's slab trade, Nobby and Colon were hiding in the Old Lemonade Factory, and Cheery had the day off. As for Angua...

----------

Angua slowly circled her opponent, feet carefully picking their place on the ice covered ground. Her opponent was young and nervous. He was gripping his sword awkwardly, trying not to tremble, aware that his friends were watching, some daring to call encouragement.

Angua's fingers repositioned themselves on the leather bound handle of her own sword. It was slightly longer than the one the Watch had originally given her, and considerably sharper.

Her opponent made a move. He was young, but he was fast. The lunge went straight for Angua's torso, and Angua moved quickly to block. The cheap steel of the short sword shattered on the impact with Angua's custom made blade. The man stood staring at the shattered remains of his weapon, and Angua took the opportunity to sweep a leg out and knock the man off his feet. As he hit the ground with a thump, she placed one foot on the wrist of his sword arm, and gently nicked the skin of the man's throat with her blade.

She looked up. A few of the watching recruits had begun cheering, and her look silenced them.

"Never, never, never fight fair. The only reason he got off with a kick in the knees and not in the fork was because he's got the Sator Square beat this afternoon."

She reached down a hand to help the man up. "Don't worry," she muttered, "I'll make sure you're wages aren't docked for the sword."

The man stood up, with Angua's help, and grinned sheepishly at his friends.

"Any questions?" she asked.

A hand went up.

"What if the guy we're facing isn't a guy?"

Angua sighed. Someone always asked that.

"Try punching them in the throat. That usually puts them down and out for long enough to get the cuffs on. If it's a troll, call for back up."

Another hand went up. Angua looked at the owner of the hand. It was a dwarf, with the heavy eyebrows that were common in Uberwald. He looked and smelt nervous, almost terrified. A quick sniff and Angua knew that he was a she, and had a silver necklace. Angua groaned inside. She knew exactly what was coming next. This was why she hated helping train recruits.

"Yes?" she asked. The dwarf lowered her hand slowly.

"Um... well, Miss- uh, sir- uh, ma'am..." the dwarf swallowed. "It's just... why... if you don't mind me asking... if... why..."

"Why," Angua said, "if I am a werewolf, do I need to use a sword instead of ripping out a criminal's throat with my teeth?" The dwarf, now a remarkably pale shade beneath the beard, nodded frantically. Angua glanced around; she had the group of recruits full attention, and quite a few of them were nervously fingering items of silverware in pockets or around necks and wrists. She sighed.

"Because, Lance Constable, the Watch frowns on killing suspects. We prefer fair trials, followed, if necessary, by proper, formal executions. Not to mention the fact that if I were to turn into a wolf every time I was threatened, the rumour of a werewolf in the Watch wouldn't stay a rumour very long. Also," Angua added, remembering it was no bad thing for those under her command to be scared witless of her nature, "throat ripping is a hard habit to break, and is far too easy to fall back into; one bite is one too much." She nodded to Colon and Nobby, who were having a cigarette break in the corner of the training ground. "Sergeant, shouldn't the recruits be getting their afternoon Patrol rotas?"

As the recruits began shuffling over to the pair of NCOs, Angua looked at the shards of cheap steel on the ground. She prodded them with a booted foot, then turned and left the Old Lemonade factory and crossed to Pseudopolis Yard. Sally was sitting at the Front Desk, and the main office was once again remarkably empty. Sally glanced up.

"No unsheathed weapons in the Watch House, Sergeant. Ankh-Morpork Laws and Ordinances regulation 3a of the Watch House Regulations Act 1698."

Angua reached down to the book on the table in front of Sally, picked it up, saw the title (The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork), and threw the book into the roaring fire on the other side of the room.

"Where do those things keep coming from?" she asked the world in general. "They're nothing but trouble. You know that under the laws in that book you and I could get arrested and beheaded for 'Behaviour likely to spook people out' whenever we find it necessary to assume other shapes?"

Sally sat back in her chair. She didn't seem to be listening.

"Where did you get that sword?" she asked, eyes on the blade.

Angua watched Sally carefully. Of course Sally would recognise the sword; there was at least one in practically every noble family in Uberwald. She paused for a second before shrugging and holding it out, hilt first, to Sally.

"It's an Alterfelsen blade. It was my brother's. My parents sent it to me after his death; they're aristocrats, they think pure blood is more important than anything else, so sent it to their estranged daughter rather than a loyal nephew."

Sally looked at the sword. Its balance was perfect. Near the hilt was an engraving; she held it up to the light and tilted it; the carving seemed to change from that of half a wolf's head to that of a half bat; if she got the angle just right, the two images were both visible, joining in the middle. No one was sure how the Alterfelsen smiths did it; something to do with the depth of the carving, and the kind of metal plating at the bottom of the grooves, there were even rumours of using octarine in the blade.

Sally turned the sword to point the hilt back at Angua; even the gentle movement made a sound as like tearing silk as the blade cut through the air. She handled the weapon reverentially. Alterfelsen smiths had once taken over a year on making each blade, and as a province of the Dark Empire the swords had been, in gross weight, their smallest export, and in terms of money coming into the province, their largest. The Uberwald nobles practically counted their wealth in number of Alterfelsen swords in their families rather than gold (only in a metaphorical sense; while Angua and Sally would be the first to admit that Uberwald's aristocracy was more dethatched from reality than a British Rail train from its timetable, not even the Dark Empire's Lords would count anything other than gold as gold). Even werewolf families had them, if only because of status associated with them in Uberwald.

Angua took the sword and slotted it back into its scabbard, just as Vimes walked in the door.

"Morning Sergeant, Constable," Vimes said. He was about to start up the stairs to his office, then stopped and turned. "Any news on the invitations?"

Sally held up a sheaf of papers from the In Tray.

"All those invited have responded, sir. They'll all be coming."

"Marten included?"

"Yes, sir," Sally replied. "Sergeant Angua and I met him last night, when he accepted."

Vimes looked between the two officers.

"What was he like?" Sally and Angua exchanged looks.

"He was... very charming," Angua said carefully. "He seemed to be all upper class gentleman with none of the bad traits."

Vimes snorted.

"So he was putting on an act for you. I trust it didn't work?"

"No, Mister Vimes," Sally said, slightly too quickly.

"No, Mister Vimes," Angua echoed, slightly too slowly.

Vimes stared at the pair for a long moment. Then he nodded curtly. He turned and continued up the stairs, shouting over his shoulder.

"After this shift, take the rest of the day off. I want both of you awake and alert for the Ball."

----------

Hours later, Vimes sat in the waiting room outside the Oblong Office. The clock, still slightly off, ticked away in the background, but the effect was lost on Vimes, who had long since learnt to ignore it.

These daily reports had started to become the bane of Vimes' afternoons. Vetinari always seemed to know exactly how well the Watch investigations into any given crime were going; more annoying still, he always seemed to know exactly who was behind each crime before Vimes did, but all he would do was sit there looking smug. Well, as smug as the man ever could look. That is to say, not smug as such, more…

The door opened. Drumknott stepped out.

"His Lordship will see you now, Your Grace," he said, apparently ticking something off on his clipboard.

Vimes walked into the Oblong Office, resisting the temptation to try and see what was on the clipboard. He held his (unplumed) helmet under his arm, and came to attention in front of Vetinari's desk, eyes on a spot on the wall behind Vetinari's head, and saluted.

There was silence. There continued to be silence. Vimes squinted slightly to see, without moving his head, what Vetinari was doing.

He was reading a paper. Vimes waited. Finally, Vetinari spoke, still reading.

"Would you say that our Foreign Policy fails to sufficiently protect Morporkian interests, Commander?"

"Sir?" Vimes replied, slightly confused.

"Indeed," Vetinari folded the paper and put it on his desk. "I see, Vimes, that you are requesting a higher Watch budget."

"Yes sir. We need to take on more men to patrol the Dwarf Mine, sir."

"Men, Vimes?"

"Yes sir. And Dwarves. And Trolls. And anyone else who's willing and able."

Vetinari didn't reply. Instead, he looked at a sheet Drumknott placed before him.

"I see you have stopped investigations into the Diplomatic Shipment, Vimes."

"Yes sir." Two of the most useful words in the language, Vimes thought.

"Has Cable Street found anything new about the Colonel?"

Vimes was silent for a moment. There was no way that Vetinari could have found out about what Vimes had told Cable Street to do. But he had.

"Sir?" Vimes replied, playing it safe.

Vetinari sat back, putting his finger together. He surveyed Vimes over them.

"Of course, Commander. Best of luck with your… investigations. Good day."

Vimes saluted. It always grated, being dismissed out of hand, but he had become used to it with Vetinari. He turned and walked smartly towards the door, when Vetinari spoke again.

"And Vimes… in the current climate of City mood, it would be… unwise to take any action against Colonel Marten. Understood?"

Vimes without turning, replied, stonily,

"Sir."


	6. Chapter 6

NOTE: Okay… I apologise completely and unreservedly. Especially to Angua. In my defence, Sally is a bad influence, and I've had this idea floating around ever since that conversation in the showers during Thud. And, judging by eris86's latest review (thanks, also to all other reviewers too), I'm not the only one…

I remain in fear for my jugular.

----------

Vimes fidgeted self consciously. He was dressed in his full Ducal regalia, which, to Vimes' eyes, made him look like a brightly coloured ice cream, but Sybil had insisted.

The room was starting to fill up. It was the Ball Room in the Vimes-Ramkin estate, which lay empty, unused, and a source of employment for at least one cleaner, most of the year round, but tonight it had 'seasonal' (read ghastly) decorations all round it, a long trestle table laden with what was described as buffet food, and a lot of Watchmen standing around trying, and failing, to make polite conversation. Most of them were allowed to turn up in highly polished armour and some brown clothes that had seen soapy water within the last month or so. Vimes envied them.

There were only two people holding real conversations. Lady Sybil had managed to corner a few of the wives of the Watchmen who had come along, and was determinedly making conversation against stiff resistance in the form of a pair of women born on Cockbill Street getting tongue tied talking to nobility. The other was Captain Carrot, who, smelling even more of soap and polish than usual, was talking happily with a few of the newer recruits, who, powered by the sheer force of Carrot's presence, were happily chatting back.

Sergeant Detritus was introducing Lance Constable Brick to a few of the troll voulavents that he wouldn't have found on the street. It was amazing how Brick had changed since joining the Watch; granted, his odd shape had meant none of the troll armour in the Watch armoury would fit him, so he was in the old Elephant armour that Detritus had once worn, and he was proving even slower than his Sergeant at picking up the whole saluting thing, but he was still a changed troll.

Cheery Littlebottom was looking very self conscious, standing with a group of female dwarves who had decided to make a stand and had turned up in dresses. Admitedly, the dresses were very much in dwarf fashion, with copious amounts of chainmail and handbags designed more to carry an axe than meet human requirements for style.

Nobby and Colon were, of course, in a huddle with a few of the more experienced coppers, sharing dog ends and probably stories of vastly exaggerated exploits, both on the beat and with the opposite sex (in any gathering of males between 16 and 50, and sometimes above, anywhere in any multiverse, will turn into that conversation, some more veiled than others, but all on the same topic).

In a corner a small band quietly played Johann Wacker's Siege Crossbow in D minor, adding what could just about be counted as, for want of a better term, ambiance.

Vimes did a brief headcount. In the last few months he had really, really tried to learn the names of all of the new recruits and Watchmen, and as far as he could see, the only people missing were those on Nightshift tonight, and Sally and Angua.

A figure appeared in the door. Francis Throckmorton walked in, hands casually clasped behind his back, dressed in a smart, yet unmemorable suit.

He handed an invitation to Vimes. Vimes looked at it. It was an invitation identical to the ones the Guards officer's had been given, with Throckmorton's name on it. Even the type of card was identical, complete with a randomly placed ink stain fingerprint. Vimes had a feeling that if he compared them, the fingerprint would match his.

"I don't remember sending you an invitation Francis," he said, "not that this is an unpleasant surprise."

Throckmorton smiled.

"That is little barrier to our specialists, Sir Samuel. Incidentally, when Mr Quill arrives, it would be better if you had never seen him before. And his name is Elliot Pictonne."

Vimes nodded. Of course, Pictonne had been sent an invitation, but until now Vimes' exhausted mind hadn't paired it with Quill.

"Now, if you will excuse me, Sir Samuel, I shall mingle... it's a quite underrated skill outside of my line of work, you know."

Even as Throckmorton wandered off towards a gaggle of Watchmen, Vimes heard a regular clacking sound out in the hall. It was the sound of fourteen pairs of Hessian boots marching in step on the marble flagstones of the Vimes-Ramkin entrance hall.

The group of Guards Officers entered the hall. While the quiet babble of talking continued, every eye followed them. They were in dress uniform; their green jackets were dark green, with black trappings and glittering medals. White breeches and black Hessian boots below the waist, and (plumed) bicorn hats under their arms. Each had a light, curved sabre by their sides, not the heavy killing blades Vimes had seen before. The group made a beeline for Vimes.

"His Grace the Duke of Ankh," Marten said, extending a hand, seemingly genuinely pleased to meet Vimes. "We haven't met properly. I'm-"

"Colonel Marten of the 2nd Morporkian Guards," Vimes completed the sentence, shaking the hand. "You've got quite a name in the City," Vimes struck out for something to say other than 'That's a bloody awful hat'.

"Call me Jon, please, Your Grace. Jonny if you must. And my name pales into insignificance next to your own."

"Sir Samuel," Vimes conceded. He could feel he was being measured by the man, and, to be fair, was returning the favour. Marten seemed charming, well groomed, intelligent, dashing and polite. All in all, too good to be true. In Vimes' experience, if something seemed too good to be true, it was.

"Allow me to introduce my lads," Marten said, indicating his fellow Officers, half of them easily his elders.

The first man, around fifty and with greying hair, was introduced as Captain Neigh of the first company; the name was apt, as the man's laugh was like a horse's neighing, and his appearance could only be described as horsey.

The next man was Quill, introduced as Captain Pictonne of the second company; his acting was perfect; no one, not even Vimes, if he had been watching, would have suspected he had ever even seen Vimes before except on the cover of the Times.

The officers were introduced, one by one, with Vimes almost immediately forgetting almost all of their names and ranks, until they reached the fourteenth and final man of the group.

"And this fine fellow is the Lieutenant Colonel of the Regiment... Mr Frank Paine."

The man looked different to the other Officers; he seemed more stocky and features like his cheekbones and chin were less prominent; in short, the man looked like a normal man, not a result of aristocratic inbreeding.

"Honoured to meet you, you're Grace," the man said, saluting. The voice was street too.

"Frank here is the highest ranking man in the whole army that came up from the Ranks, you know!" Marten beamed. "No man I'd rather have watching my back when the arrows start flying."

"Thank you, sir," Paine said, standing to attention. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'm perishin' thirsty, sir." The man saluted again, and marched off, until he felt he was far enough away, and relaxed slightly.

That just left Vimes and Marten.

----------

"How in the names of all the Gods did I let you talk me into this?" Angua groaned as the Carriage rumbled down the street.

"Talking you into it was easy," Sally replied. "Talking you into it didn't take half as long as getting you into it."

Angua sat opposite Sally in the carriage. Sally was dressed in an incredible dress, in black, that just screamed vampire, right down to underwired bodice, with the important Black Ribbon pinned on in plain sight. Sally, of course, looked stunning in it, although the really amazing thing was that it was the kind of clothing that almost anyone could have looked stunning in (even if they were male, although then the effect might be stunning in a rather more literal sense, right down to the amnesia, if you were lucky).

Angua was also wearing a dress. It was considerably less complicated than Sally's, and involved a lot less sequins, but it was still, undeniably, a dress... perhaps even the word gown would be fitting; an article of clothing Angua hadn't worn in years.

"Next time you ask me anything about my relationship with Carrot, I'm staying silent," Angua said.

Sally spread her hands innocently.

"You told me he had never seen you in a dress; I'm just attempting to right that wrong."

"Do you have any idea how much this thing cost?" Angua moaned.

"Yes; I was there and helped you choose it, if you remember," Sally replied. "Good thing too, or you'd probably have just bought some more armour polish and taken your uniform to the laundrette."

"It was over a hundred dollars!"

"Look," Sally said, "you've been in the Watch for years now, on full pay, and what have you spent money on? Rent and the occasional chicken. It's not as if you can't afford it. Anyway, I'm paying for the carriage."

"We could have just walked," Angua muttered.

"Good Gods, girl, when was the last time you even wore a dress? You can't walk anywhere in it, especially not in this weather; it'd be filthy before you ever got to the Ball."

I can hardly walk anyway, Angua thought. Along with the dress, Sally had persuaded her to buy a pair of high heels; they were only three inches high, compared with Sally's six inch, but then Angua hadn't had practise in walking in heels. Aloud, she said,

"I'm not a dress kind of person. The lads will laugh. Or worse, they'll snigger."

Sally rolled her eyes.

"They won't," she said. Angua was offering as much resistance to the idea of dressing properly for the Ball as Sally had expected; the difference was Sally expected to come up against a solid refusal, not a long drawn out refusal that took place after all items had been bought and put on. Anyway, the only Watchmen who laughed at Angua normally were those with a death wish, and in her new clothes, the only people to laugh at her would be people with a death wish and no interest in ladies.

Sally just hoped and prayed no one would do something incredibly stupid like wolf-whistle. Angua was wearing a dress that Sally knew was more stylish than a good few vampires wore nowadays, in a deep red, and, after much arguing, Sally had even managed to get Angua wearing a pair of elbow length gloves in the same colour and even a fan, although Sally got the impression the only reason Angua had consented to such accessories was the irony at the thought of a werewolf dressing in a way so suited to a vampire.

"This is insane," Angua muttered. "Something is going to go wrong, and I'll have to change, and-"

"You're not going to have to change tonight, Angua," Sally said, in a tired voice.

"I am," Angua replied fervently, "you remember how long it took to get my hair like this? If I ever spend more than five minutes on it, I'll have to change within three hours. Cosmic law of some kind." Angua sighed. "And then... think how bloody long it will take to get back into this getup."

Sally smiled slightly. For all her complaining, Angua had offered remarkably little argument when Sally had made the suggestion of formal wear. Right now, while parrying Angua's complaints and trepidations, Sally was mostly trying to imagine Carrot's face when he saw Angua.

----------

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were surveying the buffet with eyes of true connoisseurs.

"Cor, Sarge, look at the sausage rolls," Nobby said, eyeing the plates hungrily.

Colon picked up one of the burnt offers and put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, a look of extreme concentration (or possibly constiterracen) on his face.

"That, Nobby, is approximately one half burnt to a crisp."

"They must have got a gore-met chef in, Sarge."

People had begun to relax, although the atmosphere was still one of forced happiness. The army officers had, after attempting to talk to some of the Watchmen, largely retreated back into their own group, who had been caught in conversation with Captain Carrot.

All except two; Marten was talking to Vimes, and another man was walking towards Colon and Nobby.

"'scuse me," he said in an accent that wouldn't have been out of place in a Broken Drum brawl, "you're ex-milit'ry, right?" He spoke to Colon and Nobby.

Colon nodded, saluting and coming as close to attention as his body allowed.

"That's right sir," he said, "Duke of Quirm's Middleweight Infantry and then the Duke of Eorle's First Heavy Infantry, eight years under the flag."

The man nodded.

"I thought so. There's somethin' in the stance after a couple of cold nights on sentry duty you can't get rid of. I'm Frank Paine." He extended a hand to Colon, who shook it, then, with only a hint of hesitation, to Nobby.

"Duke of Quirm's Middleweights, eh..." he said thoughtfully. "Me first drill sergeant when I joined up was from them. Had a voice like a bull with its arse on fire, ol' Sarge Wishbone did."

Colon did what for him was a double take.

"Not old 'Two-To-One-Against' Wishbone?"

"You knew him?"

"I'd say I did!" Colon retorted, "He used to run the regimental book… the bastard still owes me ten dollars on the worm races!"

"You'll have a hard time getting it off him then," Paine replied. "He's been pushing up the daisies in Klatch since the whole Leshp incident."

Colon nodded sadly, chewing on a sausage roll. He suddenly seemed to brighten up.

"I don't suppose…"

"Sorry, Sergeant," Paine replied, "I can't carry another man's debts… although…" he reached into the lining of his bicorn, which he had steadfastly refused to put on, and pulled out a pack of cards, "I'll give you a run on Cripple Mister Onion if you like."

Nobby reached into his breastplate for the Watch's petty cash, as Colon replied,

"Aces high?"

----------

Vimes had found plenty to dislike in Marten. He was upper class, intelligent, allegedly brave and had made a profession of fighting and killing. And, worst of all, worse than any of the above, he was likeable. That really grated; in Vimes' book, an aristocrat was meant to be like Lord Rust; arrogant, overbearing and obnoxious. Marten was none of that; he seemed charming and genuinely likeable. Because of that, it was hard for Vimes to make idle small talk.

"Of course, the entire Disc knows about the Klatch resolution… arresting two high commands! Not something you see everyday…" Marten was saying. Vimes grunted.

"It made as much sense as anything. And what did the armies do while they waited? Football! Still, it showed more sense than Rust had."

"I remember that. Lieutenant Colonel Paine scored two hacked shins. Upheld the pride of the Regiment and all that."

Vimes was about to reply, when he saw Marten's eyes widen. He followed the soldier's gaze, and almost dropped his cigar.

Two women had just entered the room. One was Constable Sally, although she looked more like Salacia von Humpeding at the moment; there was a certain vampire image that had become a cliché, and Sally was proving that this stereotype at least was there for a reason. The other woman… looked a lot like Angua, except for the fact that Angua didn't wear ball gowns and high heels…

----------

Sally and Angua advanced slowly towards Vimes, as he was the host, and Sally had been adamant that they were meant to greet him first, and she doubtless knew a lot more about Ballroom etiquette than Angua. Sally advanced slowly in a stately way, while Angua had the feeling that anyone watching would see quite clearly, despite the ankle length dress, that she was advancing slowly to avoid losing her balance on the heels… and she had a (considerably more accurate) feeling that everyone was watching them.

Oh Gods, she suddenly realised, Sally expects me to curtsey to them… she'll do it flawlessly and then I'll try and fail and probably twist an ankle in these shoes…

----------

"Who're they?" Paine asked in a slightly awed voice. Colon, who had dropped his cards, replied slowly;

"That's Constable Sally… and… and I think that's Sergeant Angua…"

Paine whistled quietly.

"That's what you're Sergeants look like? I should resign my commission and become a copper."

Lance Constable Hasenfield, who had consented to be dealer, pursed his lips, but Nobby quickly put a hand over the man's mouth. While the man started to cough, Nobby said,

"You really, really don't want to wolf whistle at Sergeant Angua. Really."

"Why?" Paine asked, while his eyes, like almost all eyes in the room, didn't leave the pair.

"Well… let's just say the last man who did ended up being pinned to a wall by a pair of stilettos."

----------

Sally and Angua had reached Vimes. Vimes himself was lost for words, but Colonel Marten put his hand out, palm up, and while Sally put her own hand in it she performed a (flawless) curtsey, and Marten bowed over the hand again. Angua tried to curtsey, a manoeuvre she hadn't attempted for some time. Amazingly, she managed to keep her footing, and didn't make a complete fool of herself.

"Commander," Sally said primly, "Colonel."

"Salacia," Marten said, "you look even more divine than when we last met," he turned to Angua. "Sergeant, can I offer you a drink yet?" Angua took a breath.

"Ah... no, thank you, Colonel... I'm sure Miss von Humpeding would accept though."

Marten smiled, nodded slightly, and he and Sally walked away. No doubt Sally would put it down to her 'people skills'.

Angua finally caught Vimes' eye. Suddenly she felt herself start blushing.

"Sally... uh... persuaded me... to... where's Carrot?"

Vimes, wordlessly, pointed across to where Carrot and the army officers were standing. Angua nodded to Vimes, and walked as quickly as her shoes allowed her to across to them. Carrot's expression, which Sally had tried to envisage, was... indescribable, really. There was astonishment in there, some shock, and a lot of other emotions that really came to more than the sum of their parts.

"Hi..." Angua began, "Um... Sally, she talked me into..."

"You look... amazing," Carrot said. Oh boy, Angua thought, this blush must be burning in...

----------

NOTE: Sorry again. There'll be more action in the next chapter, really.


	7. Chapter 7

NOTE: Alright... I think I've got the Thud! related clothing incident out of my system. Of course, Angua hasn't got out of the clothing yet, but that's a burden she'll just have to bear. The plot moves along a bit in this chapter... thanks to eris86 and Riana1 for reviews that seemed to understand the situation with Angua, Sally and formal wear!

----------

Time passed. Alcohol was consumed. Collars were undone, jackets removed, sleeves rolled up.

Colon laid his cards on the table.

"Great Onion."

There was a series of sighs and groans from the people playing, and a few cheers from the watchers; the game had attracted a lot of spectators, both Watchmen and Officers.

Colon grinned widely as he pulled in his winnings. Colon wasn't the world's greatest thinker, or actor, but you don't spend as long as he had in military and police forces without developing a pretty damn good Cripple Mister Onion face.

"You've cleaned me out, Fred," Paine said, sitting back. The other players muttered sentences along similar lines, deciding to get out while they still had some money left.

Colon considered how best to pocket his winnings; that is to say, how best to stop Nobby getting hold of any of it.

A Dwarf in Watch uniform appeared at the doors to the hall at that moment. A few people looked over at him, but most just kept on with their (in some cases drunken) conversations.

Vimes, who had made sure to keep Marten in conversation as much as possible, just stopped himself sighing in relief. About bloody time.

Vimes and Marten were, at this point, walking and talking. Vimes carefully steered Marten towards the group of Watchmen and officers around the Cripple Mister Onion table. The newcomer, who had been theatrically looking for Vimes, suddenly noticed him. He came over to Vimes, who suddenly wished he had chosen a better actor.

"Sir," the dwarf saluted.

"Sergeant Stronginthearm." Vimes replied.

"Sir, I thought you'd want to know," Vimes glanced around as the dwarf spoke. The conversation around the card table had dropped away, and everyone was listening. "It's the patrol under Corporal Bauxite; they've found the diplomatic shipment, sir." The pre-prepared lie just about sounded genuine.

Vimes glanced around again. Who was looking worried? Several of the officers had their backs to him, but he could see Marten's face clearly. It looked mildly interested.

"The one from Vieuxrive?" Vimes prompted.

"Yes, sir. They've opened it."

Still no change in expression.

"Vieuxrive?" Marten asked. "Diplomatic shipment?"

That's it, Vimes thought, play innocent...

He was about to reply when one of the officers stood up. His rank was displayed on his arm as a Major, and Vimes just managed to drag the name Cobham from his memory.

"Yes, sir," he said, "the Alterfelsen and Genuan authorities approached us two days before we marched from the depot, sir. They wished to send correspondence to Lord Vetinari together, symbolically, and thought it would be apt for both to be sent together in an Ankh-Morpork labelled shipment."

"Why wasn't I told?" Marten asked, frowning. Cobham shrugged slightly.

"You gave me responsibility for all correspondence with His Lordship sir, I didn't think that a few documents saying what you had already been told in person was worth bothering you with."

"You should have followed military protocol," Marten reprimanded him; "all correspondence with a Commander-in-Chief goes through regimental senior officer."

"Sorry sir," Cobham had the decency to look slightly abashed. "It's just that you'd given me responsibility, and the documents didn't say anything we hadn't heard already."

Marten waved his hand, dismissing the issue.

"You say it's been stolen?"

"Yes," Vimes replied, cursing to himself. "But, it seems it's been recovered now." He turned to Stronginthearm. "Alright Sergeant, I'll deal with it in the morning; keep investigating if you have any leads."

"Sir," the dwarf saluted, about-faced, and marched out.

As he left, Vimes heard some Watchmen on the other side of the hall break into 'A Wizards Staff'. Oh dear.

Marten turned to Vimes.

"I think, Sir Samuel, that that sound is my cue to leave. Your company has been most enjoyable, but I'm afraid my bed is beckoning; I fear if I stay any longer someone will doubtless rope me into a game of Cripple Mister Onion, and I have lost far too much money to my lads this last year to risk that." He saluted Vimes. "I trust I shall have the pleasure of your company at plenty more, far more tedious, functions before I leave the City again." He turned to go. Vimes watched as he walked over to where Sally, Angua, Carrot and Cheery's band of dress-wearing dwarves were standing. He shook Carrot's hand, said a few word to Angua, said his farewells to the dwarves, and then turned to Sally. He took her hand, planted a gentle kiss on her gloved fingers, said something too quiet for even Angua and Carrot to catch, and finally turned and left, with most of the other army officers, although not all, following his example and saying their goodbyes.

Vimes' mind was in buzzing. Marten was undoubtedly a good actor, but he seemed genuinely surprised to hear of the shipment and theft. Was it possible Vimes had the wrong man? He was so SURE Marten was guilty...

----------

"What I want to know," Colon was saying, "is why is it called diplomacy? Why not just call it Disc politics or something? Why'd they have to get all technical?"

"Diplomacy comes from the ol' Morporkian, Diploma," Nobby said, still counting how much money he had left, "which was used to describe offic'l travel passes and passports, and later all official documents and treaties. Originally, Diploma was an Ephebian word meanin' 'folded in two', which the first travel passes were." He looked up. "What? A man can learn a different language, right?" There was more silence. "It was to get in character for the society's Tacticus re-enactment!" he added defensively.

"Yeah..." Colon said tactfully.

"Anyway... it is just discwide politics," Paine answered Colon's original question. "Except it doesn't stink as much as regular politics."

Colon looked slightly surprised.

"You don't seem much of the political type, Frank."

"Nah," Paine replied, taking a swig of his pint. "I didn't used to be. But there's nothing for getting political like seeing your best mate's brains spattered over yer boots 400 miles from home in a war he didn't want to fight. Old Two-to-One-Against, when he bought it in Klatch, one o' only 12 people who did; back then we was still mercenaries, but we came back to do our bit for the city, free of charge. Dying for what? A bit of land that sunk. Not much." He looked grimly into his pint.

"Well, you gotta admit, it wasn't Vetinari that did all that... he's done good stuff for the city."

Frank nodded. Then he stood up.

"Urgh... ale's going to me head a bit," he said. "Let's get some fresh air." He, Colon, Nobby and a few others followed him, across the room and out onto a terrace area. The terrace was raised a story above the garden, and, from the Vimes-Ramkin estate's position on the raised area of Upper Ankh, there was a brilliant view of part of the city, lit up in the dark like an entire galaxy of stars... except that the stars weren't being manufactured out of tallow in their millions in the middle of that patch of light over there. The only part of the City that seemed higher than the estate was the Palace, lights blazing in all the windows as Vetinari the Dark Clerks worked late into the night on affairs of state.

Paine continued,

"Yeah, Vetinari has done good stuff... it's like... like... well, look at the lights," he waved an arm across the city. "It's like them... light o' civilisation and all that. You can't look anywhere in the city without seeing the lights, and a lot of that is thanks to His Lordship." He then gestured towards the Sto Plains beyond the walls. "But then you've got out there... darkness. We're busy sitting here, raking in cash-"

"Speak for yourself," Nobby muttered.

"The City, the City is raking in cash... and all the time, there's the darkness out there. We should be helping them, not spending the money on more golden White Elephants."

Colon and Nobby considered this.

"Gold white elephants? Are they made out of that white gold? Isn't that really expensive stuff?" Nobby asked.

"Nah, nah, isn't white gold what the trolls call that slab stuff?" Colon said.

"No, I mean..." Paine shook his head, laughing softly. "Nah, it doesn't matter."

"And what does Colonel Marten think of this philosophy?" said Vimes' voice, leaning against the wall in the dark behind the group. To his credit, Paine didn't jump. Without turning, he replied,

"He's very good about it. He likes to encourage us to have our own view. He doesn't force his view on us, but he doesn't agree with me... his views are a bit more... they're more likely to lead to..."

There was a crunch in the darkness, like a foot falling on snow. Vimes froze, eyes running through the darkness. Paine did exactly the same.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a fist clutching a dagger tore towards Paine. With incredible speed, Paine's arm flew up and crashed into the forearm of the assassin's dagger arm. Now he could see there was someone there, the darkness took on a shape in Vime's eyes, an assassin in traditional assassin's black. Paine threw a fist into the face of his assailant, then began pulling his ceremonial sabre from the scabbard. Vimes spun around to his left, and saw another shape detach itself from the ivy. He grabbed his helmet and swung it. It hit the man's right hand, which was clutching a thin sword. The man dropped the sword as pain shot up his arm; at last, Vimes had found a use for the damn thing, plume and all.

Paine had pulled his sabre out fully, and smashed the heavy guard into his opponent's face. As the man staggered back, he had room to wield the weapon, and slashed it across the assassin's throat. He whirled round, and thrust the blade out, through the chest of a third assassin Vimes hadn't even noticed. Vimes' own opponent had recovered slightly, and swiped a dagger he had in his left hand at Vimes. Vimes stepped back, and kicked out hard, boot smashing into his opponents knee. The man buckled with a yelp and fell to the ground. While he scrambled, Paine stepped up and drove his sword through the man's throat.

All this had happened in a matter of seconds. As the final assassin's death throes stopped, Carrot and Angua burst onto the terrace, with almost a score of other Watchmen staring out from behind them. Angua slowed down significantly as she put heel on the icy flagstones, but still managed to keep her balance. She sniffed.

"It's okay; that's all of them. You can get up now." After her first sniff, Vimes noticed the signs he had come to recognise of Angua's nose shutting down in the presence of blood; the almost unnoticeable contraction of her nostrils, mouth opening slight, eyes blinking a few times. Colon and Nobby slowly rose off the ground, where they have dived as soon as the first assassin appeared.

Carrot was reaching into pockets on the inside of each assassin's cloak.

"What are you doing, Captain?" Vimes asked, retrieving his helmet. He was rather pleased that there was now a sizable dent in it, making it impossible to wear.

"Checking for names, sir," Carrot replied. "All Guild Assassin's have started carrying name cards. It's so that any target who does best them at least knows the name of the person bleeding on their floor." Vimes rolled his eyes; that sounded exactly like the assassins; all the common sense of a wall hanging.

Carrot stood up, holding three golden oblongs. They looked like solid gold squares, almost flat, with names engraved on them. Vimes glanced at them.

"Captain, get back to the Yard, get the file we picked up yesterday, and compare the names on those to the Colonel's classmates. I'll bet all three line up to someone in the class. Sergeant, I want you to-"

"Have a sniff around?" Angua asked. Vimes nodded, unwilling to say more in front of the army officer. "Yes, sir," she turned and headed towards the steps down from the terrace to the garden and the convenient bushes. As she went, she caught Sally's eye. "Told you so."

Vimes turned to Paine.

"Are you alright, Lieutenant Colonel?"

The man nodded.

"I'm alright, sir, although there's nothing for sobering a man up like having people try to kill him." Vimes nodded agreement.

"Well, I think it would be best if you go home, get some rest. This is a crime scene now, as far as I'm concerned. We can't have civilians here, and you're not on parade now."

The man nodded slowly.

"Yes, Your Grace. It was an honour to meet you," he saluted, and turned to Colon and Nobby. "I still owe you two a drink; I'll come and see you in the Lemonade Factory sometime, Fred."

Colon, throat still constricted in the terror of the attack, only nodded. Paine made his way out, bloody sabre still unsheathed. When he was gone, Vimes asked,

"Where's Throckmorton?"

"Here, Sir Samuel," the man said from the back of the crowd of Watchmen in the doorway.

"Right; get back to Cable Street. I want a watch and a guard on Paine's house. If Marten disagrees with his politics enough to try and have him assassinated here, he'll try again at his home. I will NOT allow him to add murder onto attempted murder and theft of Diplomatic property."

Vimes' adrenaline was pumping. He was angry; all he needed now was solid proof of Throckmorton's involvement. Just when he had been willing to believe the man was innocent. Worst of all, the man seemed to have the audacity to try arrange an assassination of one of his own men on Vimes' property. At his own damn house! As he turned, he saw Wilikins step out onto the terrace.

"Does sir wish me to remove these... offending articles?" he asked.

Vimes nodded.

"Put them in the Ice Cellar, Wilikins. If they have the nerve to try and kill a man at my home in the middle of the night, I don't see why we should go out of our way for them. Get them back to their Guild when you have time tomorrow. Send Lord Downey my compliments." He looked out across the city again. The lights of civilisation, Paine had said. Well, Vimes thought, by this time tomorrow, he'd have made the world a little darker for Colonel Marten. By the Gods, he would.


	8. Chapter 8

NOTE: Right, updates are slowing down now, as myself and my friends are all returning to university this week, so they've all realised we're not going to see each other till Christmas so I'm spending more time socialising with people who seem to have been hiding all holiday till now, and then packing for my own return, and less time writing. Here's the 8th chapter though.

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Angua followed the scent across the city. The three had travelled most of the distance together, making in an easy trail, and Angua loped along it faster on four legs than they had on two. Somewhere in the garden of the Vimes-Ramkin estate, a rather expensive dress was no doubt being slowly ruined by dew, but from the moment Angua had bought it she knew that would be its fate, just as it would be the fate of her hair, from the moment anything more complex than a comb touched it, to require yet more attention in just a few hours.

The trail went by some quite complex routes, crossing the river and even going through the shades at one point. As Angua crossed the river again, back into Ankh, she began to pick up something odd; the trail smelt of blood. It didn't seem to be blood from one of the assassins, but more as if they had been walking in the stuff...

As Angua turned onto Park Lane, she began to have to exert more and more control over the wolf; the scent of blood wasn't getting too much for her, but if she allowed it, the wolf would take over. Under the blood, she picked up another scent, slightly older than that of the assassins; by the smell of it, the fourteen Guards Officers had come this way too, just a little before the assassins.

Angua followed the trail into Park Drive, then came up to a halt. She began salivating, and could almost feel her claws strain to grow. She backed out of the cul-de-sac quickly, back onto Park Lane.

Someone had dropped a scent bomb right in front of Marten's house. The scent wasn't much to a human; by this time it was barely even noticeable. But to a werewolf...

The bomb seemed to have one ingredient; blood. Lots of blood. Angua thought she could pick up some other scents under the red stench, perhaps some peppermint, but it was unnecessary, the blood masked everything.

Angua turned and walked away, back towards the Vimes-Ramkin estate. She went directly back, rather than following the assassin's route, and found she was wandering along the same roads as the Officers had.

She was puzzled; why drop the bomb there? She followed them back to their source, outside Marten's home, and then, and only then, the bomb had been dropped. It didn't make any sense.

Angua felt the wolf howling, just under the surface. The blood had had a bigger effect than she admitted to herself. Best to leave any complex thinking until she was back on two legs. She'd have Vimes and Carrot to help her with it then, too.

----------

Most of the Watchmen had left the Ball. They got the feeling that the next day or two was going to be busy, and wanted to get all the sleep possible before the extra shifts started rolling in. Vimes paced the almost empty hall, scowling in thought. Carrot had gone to the Yard to check the names, and the only Watchman left on hand was Sally, who stood in the doorway to the terrace.

Vimes thought hard. He knew the culprit, he knew the crime, all he needed now was a motive. Why steal a box full of diplomatic correspondence? Was there something in there he didn't want the patrician to see? Something that might tarnish his name? Was it really only papers, or was Cobham in on this too? How much of the regiment was up to their necks in it? Should he have posted guards on houses other than Paine's?

Vimes took a breath. Okay… what motives are there?

There was a saying; all men want one of three things; money, power, women. Most wanted some of them all, but one more than the others.

For Vimes, it had, for most of his life, been power; power to make the city a better place, to make criminals answer to justice, to clean up the whole mess.

So; Marten had money, plenty of it, inherited and from his mercenary work. You only had to talk to the man to see that his charm and persona would, in the right circumstances, be more than enough to ensnare any unwitting women (Vimes' eyes darted to Sally for a moment). That left power. But what kind of power? Power to protect his regiment? Power to choose his area of operations? Or the Big One, Power to affect the destiny of his fellow man?

Damn it, but each answer opened up a dozen more questions!

There was a bark from outside. Vimes' head spun to the door. Sally called into the night,

"I moved it inside; leaving a dress like that under a bush really isn't sensible, you know?"

A few seconds later a large, golden haired wolfhound walked through the doors. Vimes noticed it considerately tried to brush mud off its paws on the mat someone had put by the door.

Angua looked at Sally, who pointed wordlessly. The werewolf trotted across the now empty Ballroom and into a small room off the side that Vimes' couldn't remember the function of. Sally followed, and closed the door behind Angua. Vimes walked over to stand by Sally. After a moment's wait they heard the sound of fabric rustling, signalling Angua was back on two legs. Vimes spoke first.

"The trail went back to Marten's, didn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Angua replied. There was a pause, and more rustling. "Except… there was a scent bomb in Park Drive."

Vimes frowned.

"Why would they drop a scent bomb there?"

"I don't know, sir," Angua said, in a voice that sounded as if she was stretching in an awkward position. "It was mostly blood; I couldn't even get into Park Drive. Incidentally, if Sally is still out there, I really could use some help."

Sally, avoiding Vimes' glance, opened the door slightly and slipped inside, closing it behind her. Vimes tried to think over the scent bomb, hearing the muted conversation on the other side of the door.

"Why do they put the complex laces in the small of the back?" Angua was muttering. "Are all women who dress in these things double jointed?"

"No," Sally replied, "it looks better than if it was at the front." There was a grunt, then Angua's voice again, slightly strained;

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather like to be able to breathe."

"I'm impressed," Sally said, "no snide comments about my status vis-à-vis breathing."

"I decided that went without saying."

"Look, do you want this looser or tighter? It's your choice."

"Alright, alright." Pause, followed by another, quieter grunt. "Thank you."

"Would her ladyship like me to shine her shoes while I'm here?" Sally asked.

"You know," Angua replied, "for a people person, you really can be annoying."

The two undead officers stepped out of the small room. Angua was back in her dress, which admittedly looked slightly less well pressed than before, but the novelty value of Angua in anything other than brown clothes and copper armour still hadn't worn off on Vimes. She carried the gloves and shoes in one hand, rather than put them on again. Her hair was, as Angua had known it would be, tangled to hell.

"Right," Vimes said," so, they dropped a scent bomb? Maybe they didn't want to be traced to their separate homes if they had succeeded. If this wasn't a guild job, then they could be arrested for murder." Vimes swore softly to himself. "Murder! On my property! The man's got nerve I'll give him that. Alright, both of you, go home, get some rest; tomorrow is going to be a long day, and I want both of you in early. And, before tomorrow morning, I need to find a reason that will stand up to His Lordship for arresting "Sir," Angua said, "don't you think we're… jumping to conclusions here? We can't prove anything is connected to Marten, all we've got are suspicions. It's a leap in the dark."

"A leap in the dark is better than a fall in the light, Sergeant."

"Only if you land in something soft, sir." Angua replied. She saluted (a gesture that didn't pair with her clothing at all), and moved to leave. Sally followed, and Vimes watched them go.

If we land in something soft, Vimes thought, we have to move fast, because it'll be about to hit the fan.

----------

This kind of light only seemed to intensify the shadows. The curtains of the room were closed, and the candles were burning low. The figures seemed slightly nervous. One of them finally broke the silence.

"The assassins-"

"The assassins," a seated figure cut in, as if they had been waiting for the two words, "failed. That is all there is to it. Although, this event does lead to... complications."

The standing figures looked at each other slightly nervously. There was a sudden flare of light from another chair. The man sitting there applied the match to his pipe calmly. After a few experimental puffs, he said,

"This does not change the facts. The Watch is investigating a theft and conspiracy in a group of officers; they don't suspect for a moment what our real intentions are."

"But if they've found the shipment-"

"They have not. It was a lie to try and trap us," the first seated figure said. "The shipment is perfectly safe, and, I am glad to say, you all played your parts very well. Vimes has no reason to suspect us."

"That won't stop him," a standing figure replied, "he'll dig and dig until he finds something to use against us."

"You've been reading the Times editorial column too much, Major. Although," the seated figure glanced around at his standing colleagues, then the seated smoker. "Although perhaps it would be wise to move the timetable forward. Tomorrow afternoon."

There was a choking cough from one of the standing figures.

"Tomorrow? We're not ready!"

"We have been ready," said the pipe smoker, "since before we entered the city. Make sure you all have runners ready; when the first stone starts rolling we will need to move quickly, and gather the men as fast as possible."

The first seated figure continued;

"You all gather in the Temple of Small Gods. The High Priest's sympathies can be and have been bought with a suitable donation. You all know your jobs?"

The figures all nodded, some more hesitantly than others. The seated figure spoke.

"Good. As you know, we…" he indicated himself and the smoker, "have other things to attend to. Once these are completed, we will join you at the Palace." He stood. "Until tomorrow afternoon, gentleman; then, we shall be toasting a new age."


	9. Chapter 9

NOTE: Sorry. Sorry for not updating for so long. At the start of chapter 8 I thought I'd stop writing for a week or so. Then I found out how much harder 2nd year of uni is compared to 1st. Then I was elected treasurer of a society. Then I was told to do 50 hours reading a week (Ha!). And now I'll stop making excuses.

Anyway, I am home for the weekend and the review from MysticShadowcat gave me a good kick in the guilt synapses, which I thoroughly deserve.

It doesn't help that around 3000 words I was certain I wrote have upped and disappeared, which probably means I only thought them out. I really will try to write more before the Christmas holidays, if anyone is still reading. Anyway, late and forlorn, here is chapter 9.

----------

Vimes sat in his office in Pseudopolis Yard, early in the morning. He stared at the sheet of paper in front of him. He had gone back to his old method; in the middle of which he had written and circled 'Mystery Shipment'. There was a line to 'Marten', from which another line went to 'Cobham; how much does he know?' Another line went from Marten, to 'Paine- assassination on politics- why?' A line from 'Mystery Shipment' went to 'Alterfelsen & Genua', which in turn was linked back to 'Marten'.

Vimes sighed. There was still nothing springing to mind. He sat back. Where was the motive though? Someone had once said 'when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'. Which was rubbish of course; Vimes had eliminated the impossible, and was now left with hundreds of different, self-conflicting motives which, by that logic, must all be the truth. Vimes had a deep suspicion that none of them were. But Vimes was determined to find one that was by the end of the night. He glanced at the clockwork timepiece Carrot had had put on the wall of his office. He was rapidly running out of night.

Vimes was woken by a loud knocking on his office door. His body ran through the start up checks, and then the secondary checks; place? Office. Time? Sometime around midday.

Damn!

"Come in," Vimes said, or meant to. His voice, having just, with the rest of him, been woken up by a loud banging on the door, sounded more like "Wgfstl."

Carrot came in and saluted.

"Sir," he said, standing to attention. Vimes, his brain finally starting to fully operate, managed to get out a coherent sentence;

"What time is it Captain?"

"Around noon, sir."

Vimes swore. He did not have time to fall asleep! Not now!

"Sir," Carrot said urgently, "Mister Throckmorton and Mr Quill are here to see you. They say it is urgent."

Vimes rubbed his eyes.

"Alright. Send them in. And Carrot?"

"Sir?"

"What news on the names?"

"All three were in the same class and the same house as Colonel Marten, sir."

Carrot saluted again and left the office. Vimes cursed silently. Damn it! An entire night's work lost, for what? Sleep on a hard, uncomfortable chair, for which his back will probably make him pay in the next few hours. He rubbed a hand across his chin, feeling the night's growth of stubble. Vimes wished Wilikins was on hand to provide a hot coffee, but made do with pulling a battered, unpolished, unplumed helmet from his desk draw.

Carrot returned, motioning Throckmorton and Quill into the room. Quill walked straight to Vimes' desk.

"Your Grace; you've got to arrest Marten."

Vimes blinked. Of all the greetings, he wasn't expecting that one.

"I know, Mr Quill," he replied. "But I have no proof. Heard of that stuff?"

"Your Grace, arrest him, get a search warrant, and look through his house for the shipment. You HAVE to do this, now!"

"What Tim means, Sir Samuel..." Throckmorton began, but was cut off by Vimes.

"What he means, Francis, is to tell me my job." Vimes was looking at Quill, matching his stare. "Explain yourself, man."

Quill stepped back and suddenly looked very tired. He ran a hand over face.

"Your Grace," he began, "I don't know what is happening. What I do know, is that the majority of the regiment's officers met last night. They are planning something, and are going to carry it out tonight. It involves the men, the soldiers of the regiment." He looked at Vimes. "They've kept me out of it; I think they've uncovered me."

Vimes sat back, drumming his fingers on his desk.

"How do you know this then?" Quill drew himself up.

"Your Grace, I was not chosen for this job on the basis of my accent. I have some skill in uncovering subterfuge."

Vimes glanced at Throckmorton. He nodded slightly.

"Right," Vimes said. He stood up. "Captain, get a search warrant sorted out, then get a squad together, you lead it, I want Detritus and Angua in there, Sally too if she is free."

"Sorry, Sir," Carrot said. "Sally and Angua are out on patrol; you said you wanted us all working normally until further notice."

"Yes, but not after last night!" Vimes sighed. "Okay... we'll just have to find that shipment the old fashioned way. Mr Quill, go with the Captain, get the paperwork sorted, names and addresses all correct."

Carrot and Quill both saluted and left. Vimes turned to Throckmorton.

"Alright Francis... two questions; you're certain of this?"

"I believe Tim," Throckmorton replied, "and I have complete trust in his skill as an operative."

Vimes nodded. Right now, he had no choice but to believe this.

"Second question; why can't you arrest him? Cut out the middle man; you have the authority."

"This needs to be seen, Sir Samuel. If Tim is right, and I have no reason to doubt him for a second, then the regiment is going to try something. They need to KNOW it is over, that their leader is arrested, not just have a couple of rumours."

"Right," Vimes said, "we need to get a runner to the Times, and if there is likely to be... objection... to Marten's arrest, I want the Hurry-up Wagon there, I don't want to be walking back through a mob."

----------

Things happened fast. Within half an hour, Marten, dressed in his uniform as he was when arrested, was sitting in a cell under the Watch House. Vimes sat down opposite him on a chair that had been brought in specially. He calmly lit a cigar.

"Your Grace," Marten said mildly, "I was under the impression that when a man was arrested, he was entitled to know the charges."

Vimes took a drag on the cigar. The man was cool, he'd give him that. He hadn't made a fuss when he had been arrested, just become cold towards the Watchmen when he understood what was happening. Now he seemed to have returned to his normal, calm, polite self.

"Your charge, Jonathon," Vimes replied, "is being suspected of theft of Government property."

"Theft?" the man asked incredulously. "Of what? And whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

"Theft, Jonny, of a Diplomatic Shipment bound for His Lordship," Vimes answered calmly. Carrot entered the cell at that moment. Vimes turned. "Ah, Captain, just the person; whatever did happen to innocent until proven guilty?"

Carrot paused for a moment.

"I think that's an Ephebian philosophy, sir, although it's not written into their law." Vimes turned back to the prisoner.

"There you are, Jon. It's never been a case of innocent until proven guilty in this city. Here, it's a case of being locked up until proven guilty so you can't do any more harm to the public."

"Sir," Carrot said, "we've found the shipment, seals all broken. It was in Colonel Marten's wine cellar."

Vimes stared hard at Marten.

"I don't think," he said slowly and clearly, "that you can play innocent any longer, Colonel."

----------

Over an hour later, Vimes and Carrot emerged from the cell. Carrot carefully locked the door behind them, and then followed his Commander up the stairs into the main Watch House.

"He gave away nothing," Vimes said heavily. "He's a damn good actor."

"Yes, sir," Carrot replied. "When she gets back, perhaps we should have Angua take a sniff around the shipment? It could have been planted sir; if there's any of his scent on it, we'll know for sure."

Vimes nodded.

"Do that, Captain. What was the shipment, anyway?"

"Mostly papers, sir, and a few gifts of symbolic value for Lord Vetinari."

"What are the papers on?" Vimes asked, deciding he didn't care what the gifts were.

"General diplomacy, I think, sir, although I've got some men under Corporal Pessimal going over them."

Vimes nodded again. Now, he wanted to break Marten. In his experience, the best way to break a suspect was to show them that you already knew everything.

"Very good, Captain. Now, I'm going to Cable Street; I need more information from Mr Quill."

Carrot saluted.

"We'll have more detail on the papers by the time you get back, sir."

Vimes walked through the main office. He took the cigar from his lips and flicked it expertly into a bin; after an hour of slow usage, the cigar held no more usage in it. Even as the short cylinder hit the bin, the constable who had taken Cheery's place at the front desk, Constable Shoe, spotted Vimes.

"Good afternoon, sir." He said, throwing a quick salute. The movement caused his hand to almost leave his arm, held on by just a few threads. Vimes was impressed; the zombie's sewing skills were improving.

"Afternoon, Reg," he replied. "Anyone demands to see me, tell them to come back later; I'm going to Cable Street."

"Yes, sir," Shoe said. "But, the thing is, sir... there's been a message from the Palace while you were with the Colonel. His Lordship wants to see you. Immediately."

Vimes paused. What could he tell Vetinari now? That he had arrested a public figure, and made sure the Times was there to get it in inconograph? This was important; if Vimes went to Vetinari, he might be forced to release Marten; the Patrician had made it clear he didn't want the man arrested. Vimes needed more time.

"Like I said, Reg, I'm going to Cable Street. If his Lordship enquires again, tell him I'll be there momentarily." Use the bastard's own words against him.

Vimes left, deaf to Shoe's protests.

----------

Men were drifting into the Temple of Small Gods. Inside were many more men; all of them were lean and fit, with large calve muscles that came from marching long distances. Some were holding copies of the Ankh-Morpork Times Evening edition (published, as the city's sense of humour dictated, around two), reading the cover story in disbelief.

From the doorway into the vestry, Major Cobham watched them gather. He turned to ten of his fellow officers.

"We're... we're all ready?"

"What about the Colonel?" asked one man.

"Without the Colonel..." Cobham swallowed and tried again. "Without the Colonel, the men will follow orders; partly from discipline, partly because they know, when this is over, we'll get the Colonel out and back where he belongs; with the regiment. All clear?"

There was a chorus of affirmative noises, without anyone actually going so far as to say yes. Cobham nodded slowly. "Right then... Jack, Rupert... go down to the crypt and open the case."

Two officers, one of them grasping a crowbar as if unsure of how to use it, saluted and left through a small side door. They made their way down to the crypt, where, in the flickering light of a thousand candles lit to remember the dead, there was a large, non-descript wooden box. There were no official seals or Ankh-Morpork emblems on the side, and the wood was cheap, as proven by the splintering of the top as the pair opened it with the crowbar.

The objects inside were not neatly packed; they looked as if they had been hurriedly put into the crate by someone with something else on their mind. The man identified as Rupert put a hand into the crate and pulled one of the items out.

Steel glinted in the candle light. At the base of the blade, a carving of an ankh shone. Rupert turned the sword, and ran a thumb lightly along the edge to check the blade. As he turned the sword, the light caught the ankh and it seemed to chance, flawlessly, into a morpork owl. Even though he had barely touched the blade, his thumb was lightly cut, and a single drop of blood ran down the weapon. Rupert looked at Jack. Their eyes met, both slightly nervous, slightly excited.

In the candle light, five hundred identical swords glittered.


	10. Chapter 10

NOTE: Woo! Updated again! So soon! Who knows, maybe it will all be over by Christmas (mind you, we've heard that before...). Anyway, enjoy.

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Vimes walked through the City streets. The afternoon was young, but the midwinter sun was low enough to cast long shadows. Vimes repressed a shiver; the temperature was low enough for even Brick to give Vimes a thrashing at Thud.

Cable Street was almost deserted. Ever since the reopening of Cable Street as a Special Watch House, people had been less willing to walk past; the tar that had been applied with the pre-Glorious 25th of May brush still stuck.

Vimes sighed and straightened his shoulders slightly. When dealing with breezy, confident men like Throckmorton he knew it was best to imitate their style. He strolled casually into Ankh-House. The secretary looked up.

"Good afternoon, welcome to-"

"Good afternoon, Miss Dollarcent," Vimes replied casually, "don't bother getting up. I'm here to see Francis, I know the way."

"Your Grace, if I could just tell Mister Throckmorton-"

"Don't worry yourself, Miss Dollarcent," Vimes answered over his shoulder, opening a door, "I'm quite capable."

Feeling fairly satisfied with the secretary's protests ringing in his ears, Vimes walked the maze of corridors confidently, and pushed on the narrow, unmarked door without knocking.

Throckmorton wasn't the kind of man to jump, but if he was he would have; in the split second in which Vimes had the advantage of surprise, he read on the spine of the file Throckmorton was reading 'SV, DoA', before the file was smoothly deposited in a draw on the far side of the desk. Vimes caught Throckmorton's eyes, and the spymaster's words came back to him on why Marten was watched so carefully; "a man with almost a thousand trained and armed men who are loyal to him above City and Patrician". How many people were in the Watch now? Including Specials and the new recruits for the Mine beats? 500? Maybe pushing 600, all with the authority to carry arms in the streets. And how many of them had any love for the patrician? He had made himself useful to the city, maybe even essential, but never a figure of adulation.

Suddenly Throckmorton's face was controlled again, and had an expression of pleasant surprise fixed.

"Sir Samuel, this is a surprise... not an unpleasant one, though."

Vimes could see through the act. Well, he couldn't because Throckmorton was damn good, but he knew no one could change emotion that quickly. He pulled the chair out and around, straddling the seat and leaning on the back. He casually took a cigar from his silver cigar box and lit it.

The show with the cigar was simply to give himself time to think. The file wasn't thin, Vimes had seen that much. Suddenly the effort to remember the name and face of every Watchman seemed even more worthwhile. Who could be a spy?

A suspicion suddenly dawned. Who was the last spy in the Watch? Sally. A Black Ribboner with no apparent obsession to replace the one for blood. Was her X-factor the intrigue and secrets of the spy's life?

Vimes could prove nothing. He wasn't even certain he was right, and if he tried to get rid of Sally, even assuming she was the spy, another one would march in along with the new recruits. Well... if they were watching, he'd have to give them something to watch.

"Afternoon, Francis," Vimes eventually broke the silence. "Good day?"

Throckmorton blinked. Vimes grinned savagely inwardly. It was always fun to break seemingly unbreakable facades. He continued before the man could reply. "I dropped round to have a chat with Mr Quill. Is he about?"

Throckmorton managed to smile back.

"I'm afraid not, Sir Samuel... he's back with the Regiment, keeping an eye on things... making life difficult for the officers, whether they've discovered him or not." He sat back. "Anything you want to know, I'm sure I can help you."

Vimes met the man's gaze. Anything he wanted to know... like what Sybil had had for breakfast last Octday? Anyway, the file on Marten was still at Pseudopolis Yard, so there would be nothing new here.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to infringe on your time here, Francis," he replied. "Anyway, I've seen what I came here to see." Which was a lie, he had seen something he didn't even know existed, but the truth rarely made people ill at ease.

----------

Vimes walked calmly out of the building, not once looking back. As he passed reception, Miss Dollarcent had risen, but he had simply flicked the cigar into the wastepaper basket by her desk and ignored her questions.

Only when he was well clear of Cable Street did he duck into a small alley unnoticed and let down his guard.

He swore silently. How DARE they? HOW dare they? Which, the always sane, logical, calm (and annoying) back part of his brain pointed out, was a stupid comment, as they evidently had and how wasn't too much of an issue. Who was it who said 'I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none, as I'll cut their knackers off'? Probably somewhere in one of Hwell's plays, most quotes were.

The worst thing was there was nothing he could do; if he wanted background checks on all recruits, not only would it be hideously expensive and off putting, but Cable Street would provide them and they could lie. He couldn't even be certain who the current spy was; was there one in the Watch? Was there one in the estate staff? Was it just rumour and hearsay in that file? Why was every day of his life another series of infuriating questions?

Vimes composed himself in the gathering gloom of the alley. He had more important matters than this; this spying matter didn't threaten anyone directly, while a group of officers holding clandestine meetings could mean anything.

----------

Angua had given up sniffing for the day. It had taken her months to get over the stench of the City when she had first arrived. And now she was struggling with an almost equally overpowering scent; Sally the vampire. To top it off, she could still smell traces of the blood bomb in the city air; she just prayed people weren't going to use them regularly. They stank of temptation and the scent wafted over the city for days afterwards, to a werewolf at least.

The last of the light was fading now; Angua had some idea that it was the shortest day of the year, but since the only calendar in the Watch House was decorated with what could only be described as lewd iconographs, she hadn't been in much of a mood to check in the morning.

The streets in this part of the City were teaming with people, another reason to avoid any nasal activity. Darkness was never a barrier to sales, and the scents of countless foods drifted on the breeze, along with the more putrid scents of the same foods, brought back up after the first bite; Ankh-Morpork cuisine at its finest.

"Why is it called Short Street?" Sally was asking. "It's the longest in the city!"

Sometimes Angua wondered if the vampire ever stopped talking, then zoned back in on the real world and realised no, she didn't.

"The famous Ankh-Morpork sense of humour," she replied with a shrug.

"But the Ankh-Morpork sense of humour is meant to be intellectual! Sophisticated!"

"Yeah," Angua answered, "but once you've been here a while you'll realise it's all toilet humour with a healthy dose of innuendo. Nothing too high brow." Angua paused a moment; "Oh, and sarcasm."

Angua could see Sally mentally replaying her time in the city, before shrugging and nodding slightly. Angua began counting in her head... 1, 2, 3, 4...

"Should we really be doing this?" Sally asked. Lotto, Angua thought; never quiet.

"Doing what?" Angua said, nodding to a pair of Watchmen who were, all of a sudden, most definitely not drinking coffee from a paper cup or eating donuts, no Sergeant Angua, not while we're on duty.

"Patrolling!" Sally replied. "After what happened last night, I mean."

"What else are we meant to do?" Angua answered with a question. "Sit in the Watch House and scratch our heads?"

Sally was about to reply when she stopped, and pointed. Angua, following the vampire's finger, saw a black horse with what looked like a very agitated rider, trying to work its way through the milling crowds of pedestrians and slow moving carts. Angua was about to ask what of it, when the grey cloak the man was wearing billowed out slightly as he frantically waved an arm to try to move a man trying to sell sausages-ina-bun out of his way. The jacket underneath was green, with a white cross belt. The werewolf nodded.

"We follow him," she muttered, making a snap decision.

"What shape?" Sally whispered back. Angua looked at the man. He was agitated. One thing being a copper had taught Angua was that the more nervous and agitated a man was, the more likely he was to make a mistake; she wanted the soldier to know he was being followed.

"Human," she replied. With an ease it took years to perfect, she adopted what Vimes thought of as the Professional Policeman's step. It was similar to proceeding, but a whole lot more menacing.

----------

Colon's winnings at the Ball had started a bit of a craze in the Watch House. Whenever anyone thought that Vimes, Carrot and Angua were all elsewhere, they broke out the cards and gave Cripple Mister Onion a try. So far, Nobby was winning; he didn't play any of the games, but no one ever missed a few dollars from the pot when the cards were being dealt.

Reg Shoe glared at Colon, Visit, Lars Skulldrinker and Nobby, who had a game going in the middle of the Main Office (well, Nobby was just watching and occasionally stealing, but for him it was as close to playing as makes no odds).

"Gambling is the ruination of the Proletariat!" he informed them piously.

"Last Friday you told me that was drink, Reg," Colon replied. "Raise five."

"It was organised Religion the last time I went leafleting," Visit interjected. "See your five, raise five."

Shoe tried a different tack, and asked Visit,

"How can you, a holy man, a man of Om, engage in such a sin?" Visit calmly put his cash into the pot.

"You told me Om was just an invention of the elite to subject the masses," he said, "and anyway, I need the money to get the press repaired. As the Prophet Dhblah said, 'being a Prophet is no bar to profit', and if it works for a Prophet it works for me," his eyes glazed slightly as he continued, "all are born equal in the eyes and hands of Om."

Reg was about to reply, when Carrot came through the main door, closing it behind him. The three card players stood up, so fast that they 'accidentally' knocked the table over, spilling cash and cards on the far side from their Captain. Nobby, unseen by the others who were standing to attention suspiciously smartly, quickly pocketed as much of the cash as possible before sloping quietly out of the room.

Carrot greeted each of the Watchmen; apparently oblivious to the stir his entry had caused.

"Any news from Corporal Pessimal about the papers, Fred?" he said as he walked around the Front Desk, while Lars and Visit put the table back up.

Colon was about to answer when the main door banged open again, and a figure practically flew through. The man was wrapped in a grey cloak, with greying hair and a frantic look in his eyes.

Carrot was the first to react. It came as no surprise to anyone in the room he knew the man's name;

"Hello, Captain Neigh," he said, "what can we-"

"Commander Vimes!" the man gasped, "I need to see him! It's treason! I have to-"

"Fred," Carrot said, turning fast, "go and get Mister Vimes. Visit, get Captain Neigh a glass of water. Lars, check on Colonel Marten. Now!" there was an extra harmonic in his voice as he said this. It resonated steel. Treason is a dirty word; to some, it is the worst.

The door opened a third time, and Sally and Angua stepped in. Angua nodded to Carrot.

"We've been following this Officer from Short Street," she said quietly. "What's the matter with him?"

Carrot's eyes fixed on Neigh, who was sitting, looking shaken, at the newly righted table.

"I don't know," he replied levelly. "But I'm sure the Captain is going to tell Mister Vimes."

Vimes came down the stairs slowly as Neigh gulped the water given to him, Colon carefully keeping behind his Commander.

"What's happening, Captain?" Vimes asked. Even he wasn't sure if he was asking Carrot or Neigh.

Neigh butted in first.

"It's treason, Your Grace! The Regiment, it's marching on the Palace!"

The words echoed around the suddenly silent room. Vimes looked steadily into Neigh's eyes. He had read Gods alone knew how many pages on this damn regiment, and one thing had stuck; there wasn't a man among them without nerves of steel. They'd marched into crossbow fire, across staked trenches, and held ground before cavalry charges, without so much as flinching. But now, something had one of their oldest veterans flapping like an old washerwoman.

"Start from the beginning," he said, calmly.

Neigh gulped at the water again.

"They... the lads... the officers mess... they... I don't know," he gasped. "In Vieuxrive, there'd been a lot of politics talked... I don't remember much, but it seems now that a cabal were sounding out the rest of us. I didn't... I suppose... meet their requirements." The Captain was calming down a bit now. "I didn't think anything of it back then. But today... when you arrested Jonny... I met some of the boys... rankers, you understand, my boys, First Company... who were going to Small Gods. Turns out they, and around 500 others... had been contacted... they're... they're..." Neigh looked straight into Vimes' eyes, and all the Commander could see was fear and honesty. "... they're going to overthrow Vetinari."

Complete silence again. Vimes looked around. Most of the Watchmen were staring open mouthed at Neigh, except for Carrot and Angua. Angua was watching Carrot carefully, and, as Vimes shifted his gaze to his Captain, he saw Carrot was staring directly at him.

The Curse of command, Vimes thought. Everyone knows that you know what to do... except you.

"Red, fetch the Colonel," Vimes said; now he knew what was happening, maybe he could get something out of the stubborn bastard. He turned back to Neigh; "When?" he barked.

The Captain put his head in his hands. Suddenly the grey areas of his hair seemed more pronounced, and he looked old.

"I... I don't know, Your Grace," he said sadly. "But... if anything does happen, it's a dollar to a penny the lads- officers, that is... will kick off at the Colonel's place. We've all been in and out of that place non-stop since we got back."

Vimes nodded. He remembered when he had left for Klatch, before he was a Duke, all that time ago, his snap decision could have gone wrong and resulted in the destruction of all he held dear. But now, he knew, the only wrong decision would be to do nothing; half a thousand armed and trained men were ready to start bloodshed in his city, and it came down to Sir Samuel Vimes to stop them.

His head snapped up.

"Carrot, get as many Watchmen as you can and go down to the Plaza of Broken Moons. Fred, call up as many specials as possible, kit them out and send them to Carrot. Visit, stay here with the Captain, Angua, Sally, you come with me; we're going to try and get something new from the Colonel."

As the Office became a bustle of activity, Vimes turned resolutely towards the stairs leading to the cells. He began to walk towards them, then stopped short as Reg Shoe emerged, as fast as a zombie can reasonably manage.

"Sir... Colonel Marten's gone," he said. Vimes ground his teeth together. He spun around and marched towards the main door.

"Right. Angua, Sal-" Vimes paused. What if Sally was a Cable Street spy? How far could she be trusted? A surge or rage pulsed through Vimes suddenly. To Hell with them. If they were watching, he'd give them a show. "- Sally, we're going to have to pay a call on our dear Colonel... let's go for a walk."


	11. Chapter 11

NOTE: Okay... I know I've left this way too long... I just didn't seem to get any inspiration or time during term time for writing. If I start writing as I did in the Summer Holidays, it might be over by Christmas... hopefully by New Year at least. Maybe.

And a big, BIG thanks to anyone who has shown any interest in this fic... reviewing or messaging me or whatever. As GG Crono pointed out, the prose isn't great, and I'm God-awful at Grammer... so an even bigger thank you to anyone who managed to read through it all. Of course, this is probably the part where it all falls down...

----------

The last rays of light had faded as Vimes, Angua and Sally walked quickly- or, in Vimes' case, stormed- through the maze of Streets that was Ankh-Morpork. A light snow was beginning to fall, making the carts and horses on the streets even more cautious of ice. Most people, however, had retired indoors, rather than wait for the inevitable change from snow to Ankh-Morpork freezing sleet.

Vimes kept his eyes open. He had hoped to gather more Watchmen to him as he made his way to Park Drive, but he had failed to take into account Carrot's almost supernatural organisational skills; most Watchmen will have seen the flashing semaphore of the City Watch call them, and none seemed to be left on the streets. This worried Vimes even more; was he only helping to turn his city into a battleground by putting one group of armoured men in the path of another?

He tried to shake these thoughts out of his head. He had the law on his side, and that damn well ought to count for something. He also had a vampire and a werewolf behind him, and he had never thought he'd be glad of that.

His thoughts turned to Colonel Marten; the damn man had escaped. ESCAPED. No one escaped the Watch, Vimes had ensured; no one was above justice. But on a non-metaphorical level, this man had escaped. Any copper who couldn't break out of his own nick was not worth his pay, as far as Vimes was concerned, but Marten wasn't a copper; he was an inbred toff whose only natural talent should be an annoying laugh. Vimes' blood boiled. Marten would pay.

The crunch of three pairs of feet on the thickening snow was the only sound Vimes could hear as the group turned into Park Drive. It was too quiet... at least some (comparatively) innocent citizens somewhere nearby should be shouting or singing or something... Vimes wished the world wouldn't conspire to add unnecessary atmosphere to the situation.

Vimes stopped in front of number 12. Without turning, he asked,

"How many people are in there?" The only light was burning in one of the ground floor windows.

"It's... hard to tell, sir," Sally said carefully. "Things are getting pretty loud for me." The vampire deemed it an unwise move for her career to say she couldn't hear anything clearly over her Commander's roaring pulse.

Vimes mentally squared his shoulders. He knew he might regret charging in, but he was angry damnit.

As he led the way up the brief flight of stairs to the front door, no shout came from within, no sudden hail of crossbow bolts. Vimes reached for the door handle, and for some reason was unsurprised to find it unlocked.

He paused, hand on the handle. He glanced at the two undead officers behind him.

"No one's behind the door," Angua answered the unasked question, Sally nodding slightly. "But quite a few people have been in and out quite a bit in the last hour."

"Including Marten?" Vimes asked.

Angua paused a moment, eyes un-focusing.

"No... I don't think... no, I'm certain," her eyes focused back in on Vimes. "Maybe he came back via the back door... or went straight to Small Gods?"

Vimes suddenly felt cold. What if Neigh was wrong? What if no one was here and Vimes was on the wrong side of the City for the night's events? Well... only one way to find out.

He pushed the door open, using all his self control to stop his free hand reaching for the short sword at his belt. For some reason, all Vimes could think of as he stepped into the dark hallway was that the butler wasn't on hand.

The door went through into what would normally have been a bright, high ceilinged room with various portraits and prints staring at the guests, but what was now seemed a small, dark space with shadowy images glaring at the intruders. Vimes couldn't help thinking it was a lot like the staff room at his old Dame school, except without the scent of whiskey.

Light crept a short distance onto the carpet from under the door to the Drawing Room, then retreated back from the encroaching shadows to the door frame.

Vimes paused in front of the door. He didn't know how many people were in the house, nor how many who were would come running with swords the moment he stepped into the light. All he knew was on this side of the door; himself, two women, and the law. Of course, when put like that, the advantages of the law sounded a lot greater than they were, and the advantages of these two particular women sounded a lot less than they were, but that was dramatic prose for you.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door. The light in the room was hardly overwhelming, at first glance; in fact it only served to make the shadows more defined. All Vimes could see as he stepped through the door was a tall backed chair in the middle of the room, the rest of the furniture moved to sides of the room, except a small table next to the chair with a newspaper and a glass on it. A glint of silverware on the sideboard, along with the guttering candle flames, was the only movement.

"As clichéd as it may sound, Mister Vimes, we have in fact been expecting you," said the chair.

Vimes, who had stepped cautiously into the room, stopped short.

"Paine?" he asked uncertainly. Of all the voices he had expected to hear, this one wasn't among them.

"Mister Vimes," the Lieutenant Colonel said. "Stop, where you are, thank you," he added quickly. "I'm not much of an expert on Watchmen, but from what I do know, you are more careful with the lives of your comrades than your own... like soldiers. To that end," a door behind the chair opened and four silhouettes walked in, each with a crossbow, "the next one who moves sees at least one of their comrades die."

Sally began to step forward before the voice cut in again.

"We have, Constable, anticipated your species. Two of these crossbows have silver tips, the others vials of holy water. While you could be brought back with a drop of blood, the ashes would need to be dried first. Ashes can be scattered a long way in the time it takes dust to dry."

Sally slowly stepped back again.

"Where's your accent, Paine?" Vimes asked; truth be told, his mind wasn't sure what to ask and was clutching at straws. The seated figure chuckled slightly.

"Not all men in the ranks were born in the gutter, Mister Vimes, but sometimes it is useful to give that impression. My father was from an old family, and had the decency to send my mother the fund to get me into a reasonable school, if not stay with her himself. I got my accent, and my education, there. Don't get me wrong, though... I was the poorest kid at Hugglestones School."

Vimes' mind worked furiously. Paine liked the sound of his own voice; always a bonus when a man has power over weapons pointing at you. But if Paine was here... where the hell was Marten? Whatever Paine was trying to do, Vimes would be damned if it would help Marten get away. Before he could formulate a question in his mind, Paine brought the topic up himself;

"And how, may I ask, is the Colonel enjoying your hospitality?"

Something went click in Vimes' head. The man didn't know that Marten had escaped... no need to let him in on the fact right now, is there? And give Paine the right answer and there would be more talking and less shooting...

"As much as can be expected," Vimes replied guardedly. Paine sighed.

"He's a good man, Commander," he said. "But he needs to be in your cells tonight for the good of the city; we need him there."

"He broke the law, he goes in the cells," Vimes said levelly, trying to make out in the shadows if Paine had a weapon himself.

"Broke the law, Mister Vimes? How did he break the law?"

"It's all in the papers," Vimes answered, fighting to control his still raging anger.

Paine laughed quietly.

"The diplomatic shipment? Planted. I must say, Mister Vimes," Paine took a sip from a glass on the table next to his chair before continuing, "after hearing your reputation, I was disappointed at how easy it was to get the man into your cells. Still, they say the mind sees what it wants to see, and yours was dying to find an aristocrat to throw in jail."

Another factor was thrown into the maelstrom that was going on in Vimes' head. Could Marten be innocent? Vimes didn't want to believe so... but that very reluctance was what Paine was pointing out. He bit back his anger, reigning in the Beast.

"Now..." Paine steepled his fingers, "... we come to the reason we went through all of this."

Vimes nodded. This, he knew.

"The Patrician."

Paines smiled.

"He's done a lot of good for the City; but his time is over. Now all he does is hold us back; he won't relinquish power willingly, we both know. He has to die. Tonight. That's where you come in, Mister Vimes."

The door behind the three Watchmen opened, and the scent of pipe smoke wafted into the room (making Angua cough violently).

"The Watch keeps the Peace, Mister Vimes," said the newcomer.

"So he who wants to control the city, must control the Watch," Paine continued, "and you control the Watch."

"Which means, Mister Vimes... we need you." Said Timothy Quill.


	12. Chapter 12

NOTE: Well... that's another self-imposed deadline come and gone. Worryingly, it's been a year since I wrote the first chapter... I just wrote it on its own staring out the window at a heavy snowfall, without ever meaning to carry it on, then in the Summer I found a story to follow it.

Anyway, thanks again to everyone who reviewed... there are some reviews I should have replied to, but decided I would answer in the next chapter, which kept getting further and further away, and now there are too many to do justice... but thanks to MJ MOD, who seemed to read and review the entire thing in one day.

I'm not going to even begin to guess a finish date or an update date, as I always seem to miss them spectacularly... and thanks to Vetinari's Eyes, whose turn it was to write a review that kick started me writing again

----------

The room stood still for a moment; a panorama of three Watchmen and a group of soldiers frozen in the candlelight. Then movement began to creep back into the room, as Quill, dressed in full uniform of the 2nd Morporkian Guards, walked around the room to the sideboard, from which he pulled a bottle of Bearhugger's Whiskey and a glass, and proceeded to pour himself a drink. Of course, Vimes thought, he was a spy; nonchalance is part of the act. Still...

Still, Quill was on his side, and any advantage now was an advantage Vimes wanted.

Quill turned back to the three Watchmen, and raised his freshly filled glass.

"Your health, Your Grace, Ladies," and he took a sip. Vimes nodded acknowledgement.

"Pictonne," he said, using the man's alias.

"Mister Quill will do, Commander," Paine said from his chair. "Between friends, you understand."

Things began to fall into place in Vimes' head. He suddenly felt tired.

"You're working with them," he said. It wasn't a question; more of a statement. He received a nod from both Paine and Quill. "Those assassins at the ball; they were sent by you," more nods. "And you, having studied Marten, specifically sent for his classmates to do the deed, knowing what conclusions we'd draw." Quill smiled.

"Well done, Mister Vimes. Please, go on."

With a terrible clarity, Vimes continued.

"When you said I had to arrest Marten, you knew I would because you were the only source we had close to him, and you planted the diplomatic shipment for us to find. Then you fed Neigh just enough of your plan to send him running to us... and me running here."

Quill nodded again.

"Very good, Mister Vimes. Considering the fact that I make a career out of lying to people, you've seen through it all remarkably quickly. If," he added, taking a sip of whiskey, "a touch too late."

"Wrestling the conversation away from pleasantries, as charming as they are," Paine interrupted, "and back to the matter at hand; as you have guessed, Commander, we... engineered matters to bring you here. The reason for this is simple; we have a proposition for you."

Quill took up the rhetoric.

"Vetinari will die tonight. Yes, he is hard to kill, but believe me; I fully appreciate the benefits of a Guild Education. Half the Officer's Mess went to the Assassin's Guild, but 500 armed and trained men should just about manage where only the Gods know how many individual and deranged people have failed in the past. When the sun rises tomorrow, we shall be in a new age for the City, and we shall have a new government."

"And what will that be?" Vimes asked coldly. "A military dictatorship? A democracy?"

Quill laughed loudly.

"A democracy? Why in the names of all the Gods should we want that? Listen, Mister Vimes; think of the most popular person you know..." Quill paused as every mind in the room went to a certain red haired captain. "Ha. Extra-ordinary circumstances," he said quietly. "Think of the most popular person you know who doesn't have a hereditary claim to the Throne."

"And now," Paine continued, "ask yourself; would that person be a suitable candidate for City Leadership? I'm betting they wouldn't. Popularity alone does not make for a good leader."

"No," Quill agreed. "A military junta... council, Mister Vimes... will preside over the City until a decision on leadership has been taken."

"A council consisting of a select few officers from the 2nd Guards?" Vimes asked. Paine shrugged.

"Not entirely. We're not exactly experts on taxation, nor Guild affairs, nor... and here is where you come in, Mister Vimes... Civil Peacekeeping."

"We want as little bloodshed as possible," Quill explained. "That would not be in the interests of the City. And to avoid riots, looting, anarchy in general, we need a strong police force, and history seems to suggest that you, Commander, are just the man to provide it. In short, we want you on side."

Vimes stared. Paine quickly followed up;

"You don't want to be Vetinari's Terrier forever, do you Mister Vimes? Not at the expense of the City?"

Vimes seethed underneath. The worst part of this was that these men were far more intelligent and organised than your run of the mill revolutionaries. They had planned for the morning after; a lot of groups simply planned to unleash the revolution and hold on, before finally climbing to the top of the pile when everything had stopped rolling. These men evidently had no intention of allowing the City to become a pile.

"You want me to help you overthrow Vetinari?" he asked, almost surprised to find his voice coming out with an incredulous undertone.

"No, Mister Vimes. We just want you to not try to stop us overthrowing Vetinari, and to then stop the City sliding into Chaos."

"You're going to need a pretty good argument to persuade him," Sally said. Vimes had almost forgotten the other two Watchmen were there, and was torn between surprise at Sally's impertinence, and relief he wasn't the one who had to say it.

Quill smiled.

"It was good enough to persuade me," he said simply. "We're not doing this for the City; we're doing this for the whole Disc."

"I tried telling your Sergeant at the Ball," Paine said. "This City is the most civilised and advanced place on the Disc. And what do we do with all of the benefits our technomancers and engineers reap? We become decadent and lazy, surrounding ourselves with useless trinkets while most people in the World live in squalor."

"You're not widely travelled, are you Your Grace?" Quill asked.

"I don't believe a Cable Street man needs to ask questions like that," Vimes replied.

"No," Quill smiled. "Pure courtesy question, really. Well, until I took this assignment, I had been out on the Grand Sneer, of course, but no real travelling. I stayed with foreign nobles and in major cities, I never saw how people really lived. Did you know, Your Grace, that there is a tribe in the Uberwaldian Forests who bind their children's heads so that they grow up with deformed skulls?"

"Or," Paine spoke, "that there are tribes in Muntab that take the heads of fallen foes and shrink them down before wearing the skulls into battle?"

"Then," Quill continued, "there is the Agaten custom of deforming women's feet and castrating some men. And I'm not even going to begin to tell you about the degradation of women in parts of Klatchistan."

Vimes had heard some of these things before, always the kind of second hand stories you got from someone who had heard that his second cousin's sister's dog's mother's owner's brother had seen them. Half of them were either lies or exaggerations, as almost every story about 'foreign parts' were. Some of them might be real, of course, but there was no way for Vimes, in a poorly lit room in Ankh-Morpork with several weapons pointing at his officers, to know.

But he was facing men who believed that they were real. Real enough to justify killing their countrymen for... and Vimes was almost certain he knew why their countrymen were in the way. He asked, already knowing the answer;

"What does this have to do with ruling the City?"

"Simple, Your Grace," Quill replied. "This City has money, technology, influence and people. Enough of all four to build an Empire."

"An Empire, Commander, that can enforce law, order and civilisation across the Disc. An Empire that can bring its Civilising Mission to thousands, even millions."

This was an evening of more and more insane statements, as far as Vimes was concerned. The problem with insane statements, however, is that not all of them are impossible. That was the worst thing about this one; it could work.

It would start off with the people being fed lies and propaganda. Then it would move on; of course, no one would really step up to support it, but there would be mutters along the lines of 'well, they've got a point' and the term 'Johnny foreigner' would be thrown around, while the Dwarves and the Trolls and all the other species would stay quiet, just happy that for once it wasn't them that the mob was being turned against. The Sto Plains were practically Morporkian already, they even used the dollar; all it would take was some careful threats and diplomacy, and their inhabitants would hardly even notice the change. And outward and outward this new Empire would go, until it met a people that it couldn't bribe or threaten or embargo. Then the drums would beat, and the regiments would be formed, and thousands of (relatively) innocent, eager young men would march out of the City, and then...

... and then, there would be another corner of a foreign field that will be forever Ankh-Morpork. Even if, by some impossible chance, no battles were lost and no campaigns failed, the draconian repression these people seemed to think was their duty would never succeed; a thousand rebellions and revolts would bleed dry not only the countries where they started, but the City whose funds and sons would be used to put them down.

And let's not even begin on the moral arguments. Judging by the way these people were talking about other cultures, they would be guilty of trying to commit genocide against half the Gods at the very least.

"It's a big idea, isn't it?" said Paine, seeing Vimes' incredulous expression. "That was why we needed the Colonel locked up. Some of the officers began to get cold feet once we were back in the City. With the Colonel arrested, they have to do something or the men with riot, and that's no good for anyone. As it is, they are armed and their anger is being pointed in an appropriate direction."

Something that had been niggling at the peripheral of Vimes' mind for the last few minutes suddenly leapt into focus.

"Armed? You've broken into the armoury?"

Paine looked shocked.

"Of course not, Your Grace! We are not looters. Did you ever stop to think just what was in that diplomatic shipment?"

Vimes' thought back to the box arriving at Pseudopolis Yard, and Carrots voice; 'Mostly Papers, sir'.

"You switched the contents," he guessed.

"Correct again, Mister Vimes," Paine replied. Quill, standing beside him, placed his now empty glass on the sideboard and drew the sword he carried at his side. Vimes saw the light flicker off the engraved Morpork owl, which, with a flick of Quill's wrist, became an Ankh. Vimes smiled grimly to himself. Why was it that Symbolism always seemed most important to people who sought to destroy someone else's?

"500 of the finest blades the smiths of Alterfelsen could forge," Quill said, reverently. "Engraved with the Symbols of the City. A fitting weapon with which to usher in our Golden Age, wouldn't you agree, Mister Vimes?"

Vimes said nothing. Instead, he was thinking, and thinking hard, about the Watchmen he had just put in the way of half a regiment of armed soldiers.

----------

The snow was still falling gently from the eerily still sky while perhaps two hundred Watchmen and Specials sat around on the Plaza of Broken Moons in front of the Palace, between the gates and a collection of Watch Barricades (that is painted wooden planks). There were a number of thermos flasks being shared around, and a lively argument was taking place over a small fire someone had built about whether the water boiling on it should be used for tea or coffee.

The streets were surprisingly quiet, and except for CMOT-Dibbler trying to sell some Watchmen a sausage-inna-bun, there was hardly any movement outside the Palace itself, when silhouettes of men and women with large files or piles of paper kept moving across windows.

Sergeant Colon was currently upholding the tea argument over the fire.

"Look lad, how long have we known each other?" he asked.

"About three weeks, Sarge."

"Er... right. Well, in that case, I is hordering you, h'as as senior hofficah, to put some tea in that kettle."

"Sarge... the tea bag was being stored in Nobby's pocket."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Colon said, against all evidence. "Pockets is meant to be used to store things."

"Yes, Sarge, but Nobby's are meant to be used for biological warfare!"

Colon was about to reply, when he saw that no one, other than he and the constable carrying the flag for coffee, was paying attention.

They were all looking at the direction a quiet sound was coming from.

Colon recognised it immediately, as any old soldier would. It was the sound of hundreds of feet marching in unison. And it was getting closer.

"Tell you what lad," he said quietly, "I'm not sure it's really that big an issue what you do with that water anymore."

Silence had fallen over the gathered Watchmen who, like a flock of hunted beasts, had all silently turned their heads towards the sound.

Carrot broke the spell.

"Sergeants," he shouted, voice loud but perfectly calm, "get all the lads to the barricades."

Something in Colon's soul moved him to obey the order before he even realised it, the sound of the marching feet being drowned out by men, women, trolls, dwarves and dozens of other Watchmen moving and jostling.

Surprisingly, Colon didn't even look around for an escape route. Somewhere in his psyche, the old part of his brain that had kept him alive over dozens of battlefields and Gods knew how many nights as a copper, was telling him that this was where push came to shove; this was the metaphorical hard place and the sound of those boots was the metaphorical rock.

The silence returned as quickly as it was broken, the sound of marching boots only intensifying it.

Suddenly, emerging from the falling snow like a fog-born phantom, a line of men appeared across the Street of Small Gods. They moved forward silently, in perfect unison.

The waiting Watchmen watched in growing horror as more and more ranks of large, silent men with swords at their waists appeared from the street.

Above the noise of the marchers, one sound rang out clear across the Plaza of Broken Moons. It the cough of Captain Carrot. With disbelief, Colon turned and saw him holding a copy of The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, and Colon just knew he was about to read from the Riot Act.

Before Carrot got the first word out, a black shape sped in along the front of the barricades from a side street. A magnificent black horse, until recently the property of Captain Neigh, ran across the Plaza, hooves sparking on the occasionally cobble poking from under the snow.

The animal reared up as it came level with Captain Carrot, an equal distance between him and the soldiers. Standing with perfect balance in stirrups of the saddle, Colonel Jonathon Marten, still attired in the uniform he had been arrested in, looked down at his men. With a voice perfectly pitched to carry across a battlefield and a hundred thousand marching boots, never mind a thousand boots along a street, he shouted,

"Second Morporkian Guards..." with perfect timing, the front hooves of the black horse slammed down onto the cobbles with an air of finality as Marten bellowed the last word; "HALT!"

His voice carried the commanding tones it took a lifetime to perfect, and went straight to the feet without bothering to call on the brain. Colon found his own feet stamp to attention automatically as the entire column of soldiers halted with military precision.

Complete silence fell, every eye on the Colonel. Even the snowflakes seemed to hang in the air, waiting for what happened next.

"Right then," Marten said, eyes slowly moving from the Watchmen on one side of him to the soldiers on the other. "So... who's going to be the first to tell me... what the Hell is going on?"


	13. Chapter 13

Wow, only just over 2 weeks between updates... this is updating malarkey in at risk of becoming a habit.

Thanks to all the reviewers... especially since most of you seemed to read the last chapter within 12 hours of it being put up!

Not many more chapters to go now... but again, no promise on update times... it seems that if I don't give any dates, they come faster than if I do...

----------

There was a knock at the door of the Oblong Office. Lord Vetinari didn't even look up from the note he was writing.

"Enter, Drumknott," he said. The door was opened and the head clerk stepped through.

"The files on Muntab you asked for, my lord," Drumknott said, laying a folder down on Vetinari's desk. "Do you feel we're any closer to finding an answer to the Muntab question, sir?"

"The question, Drumknott," Vetinari answered, putting down the quill he had been holding, "is rather; do I feel I'm any closer to finding out if an answer to the Muntab question is in the best interests of the city."

"And are you, sir?"

"I feel I am close to discovering whether discovering an answer to the Muntab Question is an answer to any of the City's problems that require answering, yes, Drumknott," Vetinari replied. "Take this to the Post Office, usual clacks address," he handed the clerk the newly written note. It read 'Troll 5 to Square P3'.

"Yes, sir," Drumknott said. "By the way sir; there are a large number of armed men outside the Palace."

"Indeed; would they, by any chance, be drinking some sort of heated beverage by this point?"

Drumknott walked to the window of the Office. He stared for a moment.

"Um... well, for the most part, yes, sir."

"Very good," Vetinari bent his head back over the papers on his desk. "Have Colonel Marten sent up when he has a free moment, Drumknott."

----------

Sergeant Colon was, much to his annoyance, not drinking some sort of heated beverage (tea, for choice). He looked over his shoulder at the huge mass of watchmen and soldiers, almost all of whom were either drinking from shared mugs or tin cans or anything that held liquid, or waiting around a fire with water boiling over it.

Captain Carrot and Colonel Marten were deep in conversation by the Palace Gates. Colon sighed; he would have given a month's salary... well, maybe not, say a week's... to be a fly on the wall... that is, gatepost... in that conversation.

He heaved himself up into the seat of the Hurry-up Wagon. Beside him, a young lance-constable, whose name he couldn't remember, let alone pronounce, picked up the reins, and the Watchmen that had been standing around jumped onto the running boards.

"I say!" Said a voice from inside the wagon; "It's damnably crowded in here! We know our rights! Let us out, damn you!"

Colon nodded to the lance-constable, who cracked the reins. The Hurry-up wagon, laden down with Officers from the 2nd Morporkian Guards, began to move back towards Pseudopolis Yard. Colon put his hands into his pockets to try and keep them warm. One of them felt a teabag. He sat back resignedly.

"You be quiet back there, like good gentlemen," he said; "you're scaring the horses."

----------

The sound of gurgling liquid filled the silent room. Quill, sword once again sheathed, poured whiskey into his empty glass, the scent of it wafting across to Vimes. He watched the spy's movements carefully, brain trying to think of a way out; it was hard over the roaring of the Beast.

Of course, if Vetinari was dead, as these people said, or at least if there was nothing Vimes could do to avert his death tonight, the two officers were right; Vimes' co-operation would be the best thing for the city. If Ankh-Morpork was allowed to descend into Chaos, you could bet the men with an armed regiment behind them would come out on top, and the only difference that Vimes' refusal would make would be that a lot of innocent people would die in the riots and street fights.

Then his mind flicked to the Watchmen standing in front of the Palace; there was no doubt that the soldiers would be willing- no, not willing, but at least would not be averse- to cutting their way into the Palace against any resistance. Vimes couldn't work with the people responsible for their deaths; that was the difference between him and them; Vimes had a conscience. But then again, Vetinari himself had no conscience, it seemed; and look at what he had done for the city. There were a thousand and one factors whirling through the maelstrom that was Vimes' brain as Quill turned around and extended an arm to him, holding the glass of whiskey.

"Come on, Mister Vimes," he said. "Have a drink; toasting a golden future is a worthwhile cause to break teetotalism with one sip, surely?"

Somewhere in the back of Vimes' mind, that part that was outside the soul, that part that was in the really real universe, that part that not even the human mind could sensor, there was a strange sensation. Vimes' hardly registered it; it was the effect brought on by the split in the trousers of time. In one universe, Vimes reached out, took the drink, broke his promise of sobriety to Sybil, broke his oath as a Watchman, went against his own conscience, and helped bring in a government run by mad zealots. In one universe, Sally von Humpeding stayed quiet. In this one...

Sally stepped forward;

"Oh, for the sakes of all the Gods-" everything, from her voice to her body language, radiated anger.

The four men holding crossbows, already jumpy enough with the knowledge of the species of the two women, snapped. All four tried to shoot Sally. The two silver tipped bolts missed entirely; going from pointing at the back of a werewolf's neck to trying to shoot a moving vampire while holding the weapon in shaking hands isn't going to be exactly conducive to accuracy. There was a shattering sound as one of the bolts tipped with a glass vial shattered against the far wall, the holy water inside dousing two candles beneath it. The fourth and final bolt, however...

There was a sound roughly along the lines of 'phoomf' behind Vimes, followed by a growl coming from the direction of Angua. Vimes didn't even bother to look round; Angua was more than capable of dealing with four men armed with what were, now, dead weights.

Vimes shoved out his hand, knocking the glass up from Quill's hand, throwing the spirit into the man's eyes. Quill took half a step back, hands going to his eyes, and Vimes took the opportunity to pull the sword back out from the scabbard at Quill's waist, reversed the blade, and slammed the pommel between Quill's eyes even as the man's hands lowered from his face. With a dull sigh, Quill crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Vimes began to turn, but Paine hadn't been slow. Already he was bringing his sword down in a shinning arc towards Vimes, and Vimes doubted he had time to parry.

A shape blurred in between the two men. There was a damp thud, and a strangled cry. Vimes and Paine both turned, astounded. The unconscious bodies of the four men were scatter near the door, and Angua sank to her knees, gripping in her left hand her right arm, with a bloody slash halfway down the forearm. Both men stared at her. Vimes' mind was blank, and Paine was horrified at himself; a gentleman NEVER raises a hand, never mind a weapon, against a lady. Angua raised her face to look at Vimes, silent tears of pain streaking her face. She reminded him, through gritted teeth;

"Fire and silver, sir."

Both men's eyes snapped back to the other. The Beast was pulling at its chain violently, howling for revenge against the man who had attacked one of Vimes' sergeants. Vimes fought against the red mist that was seeking to descend as Paine came on guard. Vimes smiled to himself; the man had struck a fencer's stance; he was going to try and fight by the rules of a sport.

Vimes felt his muscles move before his brain registered anything, and by the time he realised his body had automatically parried a blow from his opponent, he had already felt the reverberations run up his arm.

Of course, just because he was fighting as though he had a sieve on his face didn't mean the man wasn't a dangerous opponent.

Vimes watched carefully; the next time Paine lunged, his body parried without paying a visit to the brain, and Vimes slammed a foot into the man's knee. Paine cursed, falling slightly, but still the point of his sword hovered dangerously ready, pointing at Vimes. He recovered slightly, and back away towards the far door. Vimes followed slowly, picking up a glass from the sideboard, weighing it in his hand. Suddenly, he hurled it at Paine, jumping forward as his opponent ducked instinctively.

Paine uncurled with amazing speed, and brought his sword up with all his strength. It hit Vimes' blade, and Vimes' weapons shattered.

Vimes stared at the broken weapon in his hand. He had carried it since he had first joined the Watch, decades ago. Of course, that was the problem; he was still carrying one of the cheapest swords available, while Paine was fighting with a pinnacle of the sword maker's art.

Paine drew back his own blade, ready to thrust the point forwards at Vimes' chest, and Vimes felt his back hit against a chair as he tried to move away. He fell heavily into the seat, still watching Paine.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Paine said, eyes meeting Vimes' gaze. "You didn't deserve to die like this."

A voice cut into the private world of the two duellists.

"Frank Paine; you are hereby under arrest on charges of treason," Captain Carrot said, loudly and clearly. Both men froze, and stared at the sudden appearance of the tall Captain in the doorway, stepping carefully over the unconscious bodies. Vimes was amazed that Carrot paid Angua hardly any more attention that the corpses; personal still wasn't the same as important, evidently.

"What the hell..." Paine muttered, confused. Vimes heard a trace of fear in the man's voice. He followed it up, mercilessly.

"Carrot; what happened at the Palace?"

"Everything is under control, sir," Carrot replied, still advance calmly towards Paine. "I believe Colonel Marten is talking to Lord Vetinari now. The lads were having a cup of tea with the soldiers when I left."

Paine shook his head weakly, straightening up and backing away from Vimes and the still walking Carrot.

"And... the officers?"

"Under arrest, awaiting charge," Carrot replied. "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to a cell free of Igor's ears..."

Even through his confusion, Vimes realised that that was a new one.

Paine stepped back again. He turned back to Vimes, shaking his head slowly.

"I... I tried," he said, and his eyes seemed to be not entirely looking at Vimes anymore. "I tried." He raised his own sword, reversing the weapon and placing the tip against his Adam's apple. "I did my duty," he murmured, even as Carrot began to move faster, stretching out an arm to restrain Paine. "I... I did my duty."

Paine pushed the sword hard, just once.

Vimes watched the body hit the floor. With that much blood, he didn't need to ask Carrot to check the pulse.

"Carrot," he said, still looking at the corpse, "go and see to Angua." Carrot always kept his 'personal' and 'important' separate, but Vimes was certain that that, at least, was an order that combined the two. He hardly heard Carrot's

"Yes, sir."

Looking at the body, Vimes felt all of the adrenaline that had been driving his muscles for the last minutes disappear, and the rage that had driven him through the snow to come to this house dissipate.

All he could think right now was; 'this carpet is going to be hell to clean'.

----------

Paine stood up, slightly dazed. He rubbed his neck thoughtfully.

"That should have hurt quite a lot more than it did... and killed me," he said to Vimes.

"Serves you bloody right," said Vimes, in a considerably more effeminate voice than Paine was expecting. He blinked slightly, and the effect was almost as if someone had shone a bright light on the seated figure... and extinguished the lights in the rest of the room. The figure was not Vimes at all... it was rather Sally. Paine blinked again.

"What the hell are you doing back on two feet? And what's happening to this place?" he asked as the room around him seemed to blur.

"For the first question," Sally answered, her voice a strange mix of pissed-off and resigned to fate, "I'm hanging around my ashes until someone is good enough to dry them and add blood; not, I should add, a pastime I enjoy. For the second question," she raised a finger and pointed over Paine's shoulder, "see him."

Paine turned around and found himself staring into a black abyss. He took a step backwards, and the abyss changed into a black robe, so he looked up. He swallowed. He wasn't sure if he didn't prefer looking into the abyss.

CAN WE HURRY THIS ALONG? said death. UNLIKE MISS VON HUMPEDING, I DO NOT HAVE ALL DAY.


End file.
